


great and precious things

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26840473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: So maybe Castiel lives cookie-cutter schedules and eats the same brand of pasta and takes the same two different routes on his evening walk every day, but he is wholly content with who he is, and certainly is not interested in being part of some bedazzled TV production, especially one where he is forced to play the role of a childhood acquaintance-slash-small town guide, and absolutely not when the star of the show is Dean Winchester. He buried that can of worms long, long ago.As the weekend progresses, Castiel finds himself—inexplicably, impossibly, ineffably—falling for the very person he vowed never to fall for again. But is Dean really the same boy he was back in high school, so many years ago? Is Castiel?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 43
Kudos: 228
Collections: DCBB 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here it is!! The DCBB was my first ever Supernatural Big Bang, and I had an absolute blast. A thousand thanks to the mods for organizing such a great event. I could not have done this without my phenomenal artist, Taybay14—if you haven't yet, definitely go check out [their art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837191) for this piece! It is absolutely amazing and I love it to bits <333
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

> _All great and precious things are lonely._
> 
> —John Steinbeck, East of Eden

When Castiel parked his car and walked up the hill to the entrance of Lawrence High, he had pretty much memorized the sight to expect. A few students idly standing by the doors, chatting or tapping away on their phones on the latest social media app; some hanging around in clumps here and there, those who arrived early via bus waiting impatiently for the bell to begin the school day.

Today, there was a woman standing a few paces back from the entrance, gazing at the school with her head tilted back. Castiel was sure he’d remember that flaming red hair if he had seen it before.

As he came closer, it became clear that she was not a student. He’d guess the age range at late twenties, early thirties—a visitor, then. Perhaps she was here to fix those leaky pipes in the science room.

But her tinted sunglasses and loud, bright-red coat, paired with that huge clipboard blocking nearly her entire torso as she held it close to her chest, made him just the slightest bit suspicious. And add all of that on top of the fact that she was surrounded by two high school students who were talking excitedly with her and taking _pictures,_ of all things, and Castiel felt the need to investigate.

“Excuse me,” he said, approaching. “Ma’am?”

The visitor turned around and did a double-take. She had black earrings in the shape of a triangle, Castiel noticed; the symbol from Harry Potter. His curiosity amplified.

“Mr. Novak!” Mark said. He was in his Creative Writing class, and he waved with that same wide smile that Castiel looked forward to each morning.

“Good morning, Mark,” Castiel greeted, smiling back.

“This is Charlie!” Mark said, pointing at the woman. He then turned to Charlie, and pointed at Castiel. “This is Mr. Novak! The guy I was talking to you about earlier!”

“Oh!” Charlie pushed up her sunglasses to reveal a pair of bright brown eyes. She stuck out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Novak,” she said.

“Just Castiel is fine,” Castiel said, shaking her hand. It was warm and firm, with just the right amount of pressure, exuding friendliness and confidence in a way that could only come from experience. Her eyes were still studying Castiel in a way that made him feel as if he were being taken under an x-ray. “Are you a visitor, or family?”

“No, and no,” Charlie said.

“She’s the host of _Bring it on Home!”_ Eliza, another student, spoke up excitedly. “You’ve never seen it?”

“I don’t own a television,” Castiel told Eliza. He had heard snatches of speech from his students in everyday conversation, though, and the title sounded vaguely familiar. He turned back to Charlie. “I suppose you’re the host of the show, then?”

“Bingo!” Charlie finger-gunned at him and grinned.

“They’re shooting an episode here!” Mark told Castiel, bouncing up and down on his toes. “With _Dean Winchester!”_

Castiel froze. He looked at Charlie, who was smiling in a patient sort of way.

“Charlie,” Castiel said, “may I speak to you in private?”

“Yes, of course,” Charlie said, and made shooing motions at Mark and Eliza. “C’mon, up and at ‘em.”

Mark asked for one more picture, and while Charlie hunkered down to beam next to the two students, Castiel stepped aside and did his best to keep his expression placid and passive.

Dean Winchester had been a long-forgotten memory that Castiel had found himself gratefully rid of ever since he moved away from Lawrence after senior year. He buried himself in the present these days, forcing all thoughts of the boy further and further down until it was neatly packed and filed away into the deepest recesses of his memory.

It wasn’t until he’d graduated from teacher’s college and landed himself a job at the same high school he’d grown up at that he heard word of him again. Students—mostly girls, the occasional smiling boy—talked and debated over lunch breaks and work periods over the hottest actors, lockscreens and wallpapers adorned with the telltale green eyes and trademark smirk that had haunted Castiel for those halcyon years of his life. Castiel had tried his best not to pry, but one couldn’t help but overhear, after all, when it was five minutes to bell and the newest blockbuster was out last weekend. Nor could he stay silent when questioned by a curious student about what it was like to grow up in the same classes as Dean Winchester _(The_ Dean Winchester, as some wondrously dictated).

Castiel wondered what their reactions would be if he told them that the topsy-turvy history between the two of them went far deeper than that of simple classmates. How their friendship had quickly blossomed into something more. How Dean had withdrawn from it immediately. How things swiftly took a turn into something bleak and sour, how by the end of Junior year, they treated each other like perfect strangers and worse, falling back into the conformations of high school cliches, the uncrossable distinction between the leather-jacket wearing jock and the studious band geek.

Castiel didn’t know the term _Internalized Homophobia_ until years after, but the instant he read the words, Dean had sprung into his head like a perfect definition. 

He’d heard enough from girls and boys alike to know that Dean was openly bisexual nowadays, having come out almost immediately as he rose to fame.

The first time he’d heard the news, he was astonished. Now, it was handled with something akin to resignation—Dean simply grew up, and learned better.

Sometimes, when he let himself think and his mind wander just a little too far, Castiel wondered how things would have been different if Dean had matured earlier. If he had untangled his delusions and fears a few years faster. If they’d have finally trodden the path of no-man’s land, breaking the everlasting cliches.

It didn’t matter, anyhow. It already happened. Dean hadn’t, and that was that.

Except now he was coming back, not just in whispers but in flesh, and Castiel couldn’t discern if the twisty-turny, topsy-turvy feeling inside of him was anticipation or dread.

“Yo.” Charlie came closer, Mark and Eliza nowhere to be seen. “You wanted to talk?”

Castiel nodded, relieved for the interruption from his thoughts. He led them both to a picnic bench a few paces away.

“What is the show exactly about?” Castiel asked once they were settled. “And what brings you to the school?”

Charlie visibly settled into what Castiel immediately deemed as her Reporter Mode, shoulders rolling back and chin raising. _“Bring it on Home_ is a monthly special,” she explained. “I travel with celebrities to their hometowns, where they talk about their upbringings, childhood influences, things like that. It’s an extremely popular show among fans—seems, y’know, more personal.”

Castiel hummed. “That does sound interesting.”

Charlie smiled, grateful. “Well, I hope so. But, you know Dean Winchester, right?”

“Depends on what you mean by know,” Castiel said, carefully. “He’s an actor. Quite famous, from what I’ve heard.”

Charlie nodded. “He’s agreed to be the star for our November premiere. He’s scheduled to arrive here tomorrow, actually, and we’re hoping to begin filming immediately and finish by Monday night.”

“I see,” Castiel murmured. “And a portion of the show involves filming at the school? The principal allowed it?” 

“We weren’t going to cause a scene,” Charlie admitted. “We agreed that we would shoot a day at the high school over the weekend, without the students there, and then move on to other parts of the town. I was just scouting out the place a little—he went to this high school, right? I was just talking to those students, Mark and Eliza. They told me you grew up with him.”

“Ah, well.” Castiel tried to hide a grimace. He didn’t know why he thought they’d keep that from Charlie. It had been a futile hope, in hindsight. “Yes, I do know him from high school.”

“That’s amazing!” Charlie’s resulting smile was so bright and eager that Castiel felt a strong urge to return it, despite his inner turmoil. “Someone who lived in this town for so long, who knew Dean since high school…” She leaned forward in her seat, eyes sparkling. “Castiel, would you be willing to be a part of the show?”

Castiel felt his eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“You know, like—a guide to this town. You could lead Dean around and talk about how things have changed, maybe play a little catch up, reminisce about the good ‘ol days.” Charlie’s excitement was seeping through into her actions, as she gesticulated with her hands, fingers flying. “You can be the special guest! How cool would that be?”

“I…” Castiel shook his head empathically. “No. I’m sorry, Charlie, I can’t.”

Charlie’s smile dimmed. “Why not? I can arrange times, and talk to the principal about missing a day on Monday—we can get a contract, if you’d like—”

Castiel put up a hand to cut her off. “Have you talked to Dean about it? Is _he_ okay with this?”

Charlie smiled sheepishly. “Well, I’d let him know, obviously,” she mumbled, then perked up. She dug around in her purse, and pulled out a phone. “Here, why don’t we exchange contact info. I’ll talk to Dean, and you can think about it and call me back with your decision by tonight.”

Castiel relented, if only to end the conversation and stave off any further hope from Charlie. He was nearly certain he would not be agreeing, and he needed to get to class soon.

But as he watched Charlie cheerfully wave goodbye and walk down to the parking lot, where a large van emblazoned with what he assumed was the show logo was waiting, Castiel couldn’t help but feel a trickle of curiosity. And after it pulled away, disappearing down the streets, Castiel looked down at the new contact in his phone reading _Charlie!_ and wondered what he had just gotten himself into.

He shook his head, doing his best to clear his thoughts for the school day. This could wait until the end of the day.

Or at least until lunch.

And so Castiel tucked his phone into his pocket and entered the school, taking a deep breath and letting the scent settle into his senses, injecting a familiar calmness into him. The smell of the school was something he’d come to associate with a second home: faint rust and old paper and dusty linoleum tiles, the underlying spice of too much of the only cologne sold in the nearest drugstore.

His classroom was three floors up. He made the ascent with the usual complaining knees—from freshman year to now, and he’d never get used to the climb—and entered his classroom, taking a seat behind his desk.

Soon after, the students began trailing in with the telltale hum and chatter of an antsy Friday morning.

Antsier than usual, in fact. This morning, his first period English class was in a serious flurry. Information had travelled fast, in mere minutes, like it often did in a high school where every student had a phone and access to the internet, and Castiel found himself picking up names of both the television show and its upcoming star from every corner of the room.

Despite the interference, he did his best to address the situation whilst attempting to tamper down the students’ excitement.

“Mr. Novak, is it true that Dean Winchester is coming to the school over the weekend?”

“Mr. Novak, I saw you talking to Charlie outside the school this morning!”

“Mr. Novak, are you going to be on TV? Can _we_ be on TV?”

“Oh my god, are you going to be a guest star?”

Sometimes, Castiel thought wanly, high school students did better reconnaissance work than trained agents.

“It doesn’t matter whether or not those things are true,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “And, to be honest, I’m not too sure myself. But please, if there’s one thing to keep in mind, remember that celebrities are people, and I hope all of you respect their privacy like you would each other’s.”

It was more difficult than usual to turn the topic back to book analysis after that, but Castiel hadn’t taught rowdy high schoolers for years for nothing, and by the time the clock struck nine, they were deep into conversation about the modern-day connections from sixteenth-century literature, and Castiel felt himself sinking into that satisfying high when he caught that spark in the students’ eyes.

One thing he had made certain to the principal was that he would teach AP English. The passion in the classroom was starkly recognizable, and after he came the closest ever to losing his temper after substituting for a lower-level class, he had made the ultimatum to the department and never looked back.

But despite how many pages of Shakespeare they read, Castiel couldn’t quite keep his thoughts in line. By the time lunch hour rolled around, he was quick to grab his lunch from the staff room before heading to his office, where he opened his laptop and, after a moment’s debate, gave in to the itching desire that had resided in the back of his mind for the entire morning and typed in the name of the TV show.

The information he gathered was more or less accurate to his initial impressions. Charlie Bradbury, the host of _Bring It On Home_ , was known for her ability to bring many celebrities to the point of “geeking out”, as the wiki called it, with her pop culture references and endless bubbly personality. The show itself was well-known, rising on the reality TV platform as one of the most tuned-in monthly shows on the network. Fans adored the closer, introspective look the show brought to the previously-hidden pasts of movie stars, and the nostalgic angle it brought into towns and cities. The show was usually filmed over the course of three sections, three locations, and three topics: usually family, friends, and hobbies, though it varied depending on the guest and location. Oftentimes, there were activities to bring the viewpoint back to the past, with drive-in movies and bowling alleys alike.

The last episode starred an actress Castiel recognized faintly from posters, and it had taken place in Manhattan. The next episode was to air in late November, and the star had not been revealed to the public just yet.

Of course, Castiel knew who it was now.

With that, he concluded his research on the show, and, with a reluctant hand, he tapped in the name of the show star into the search engine, pressed enter, and began to read.

Dean Winchester had gone to UT on a football scholarship, but swiftly moved his interests to acting, where he quickly became one of the fastest-rising male actors of the decade. Many speculate he had been scouted as a model first, basing the evidence on his iconic sideways smile and sparkling eyes. He was well-known for his easygoing attitude and flirty behaviour with fans and press alike, causing waves to ripple in the paparazzi constantly—but the shy, blushing side of him that came out on rare occasions was what really set them off.

With all this, it wasn’t a surprise that a majority of the articles were dedicated to his love life. Or, for a better word, his lack of one. For all that his easy smile wagered, Dean had never dated anyone publicly, nor did he appear to be seeking anything more than a pick-up line and a chaste kiss on the cheek to a furiously-pink interviewer.

_Dean Winchester is openly bisexual (you heard that right, ladies and gentlemen!) and isn’t afraid to show it. He attended the Vancouver pride parade just last summer, where you can see him flaunting his rainbow swag with pride._

Attached to the article was a photo, and as Castiel scrolled to it, his breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t hard to know that Dean was attractive. In objective standards. Castiel knew this in high school and he knew it now.

But when he used to be too-tall, eyes a little too slanted and ears just a little too flared, he had grown into his features so well it was nearly unfair, and the photo flaunted it and made it shine.

Dean’s hair was messy and ruffled in a way that made it look like it was on purpose, slicked with sweat that gleamed on his neck and collarbone. High cheekbones were smeared with colour, a splash in the explosion of rainbow in the background. He was caught in the middle of a laugh, eyes nearly shut, crinkling at the corners.

Castiel caught himself looking at the photo for longer than what was strictly considered normal and quickly tore his eyes away, scrolling until it disappeared into the top of the screen.

He dragged himself back to sobriety with the reminder of Dean’s past. The more he read, the more incredulous the statements became.

Dean often spoke out about issues involving queerbaiting in modern media. In fact, many account for his rise in popularity to the Fox film published four years ago, targeting an LGBT audience and starring a closeted gay man.

By the time he reached the end of the article, the memory of the photo was replaced with a bitter taste in his mouth. Dean had won yearbook for _Ladies’ Man—_ twice. When Castiel had tried to tell him the exact things present Dean was now advocating for, the Dean from the past had shrivelled up and sprinted in the opposite direction. The juxtaposition was nearly humourous, black comedy at its finest, and it was made darker when Castiel searched for anything regarding Dean’s behaviour in his highschool years, only to find nothing at all.

_When asked about his childhood, Winchester looks away, a flush rising on his face, making his freckles stand out. “I don’t really think about my past much,” is his vague response, accompanied with a shrug. “I figure, I’m here now, right? That’s all that matters.”_

As if timed, Castiel was jolted out of his reading by the shrill bell signifying the end of lunch. He had a Creative Writing class to teach down the hall.

Before he packed up, Castiel looked back at his laptop screen and read the passage again.

He couldn’t say that he wasn’t intrigued. Dean had evidently changed, but it didn’t alter the past. Castiel still had a hastily patched-up scar in his high school memories, rosy and shot through with hurt. He wasn’t eager to reopen the wound anytime soon.

All that matters. He snorted, and deleted the tab.

-+-+-+-

Castiel knocked at the open door, the sting a brief bite against his knuckles.

From the desk, the principal lifted her head, and smiled warmly when she saw who it was.

“Castiel,” she said. “Good afternoon.”

“You too,” Castiel said. “I had a few questions for you.”

“Shoot.”

“I saw Charlie Bradbury this morning—the host of the television show _Bring It On Home._ She told me they were coming down here with Dean Winchester to film a portion of their show at the high school. Is that true?”

The principal looked surprised. “Yes, it is. We weren’t planning on making a big announcement of it—you know how the school can blow things up. Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just that, well. Tomorrow’s the day of the concert, isn’t it?” Castiel had been one of the main planners and organizers of the annual fall concert for over five years going strong, and it had unironically become his baby in all but form, watching it bloom from a meager gathering to a full jazz band and choir, auditorium packed. “Wouldn’t the filming interrupt that?”

“I talked to Charlie about that already,” the principal said. “They’re planning to come at noon, right after lunch, and film until four. The concert starts at seven, so that leaves an ample amount of time for the performers to get ready.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, feeling a bit of the tension leave his shoulders. “Alright, then. That’s good.” 

The principal smiled at him reassuringly. “Is that all?”

“One more thing,” Castiel said, and bit his lip. “We’re starting the final unit on novel comprehension, and _East of Eden_ would be stellar for the students, but we don’t have any copies in the library. I was wondering if I could place an order from the school.”

The principal pursed her lips, an expression settling onto her face that made Castiel fight the urge to shuffle his feet and twiddle his thumbs like he was seventeen and asking for a university referral all over again.

“How many do you need, and how much would they cost?” she finally said.

“At least thirty copies,” Castiel said, taking the plunge. There were twenty-eight students in his class, and he had firm belief in their abilities to lose, rip, or otherwise wreck paperbacks.

When he named the price, however, he saw the principal’s face and his heart sank. “I can get discounts in bulk,” he offered hopefully.

The principal shook her head. “I’m sorry, Castiel,” she said, genuine remorse in her voice. “You know we can’t afford it with the latest funding cuts. You already spent a large portion of our budget on instrument repairs this Spring. Don’t we already have books?”

“Well, yes, we do, but,” Castiel struggled with his words, _“To Kill a Mockingbird_ has been used for several years now, and many students have gotten, for lack of a better word, bored of it. The themes have been explored as much as they possibly could. I know students have been cheating off of older kids due to this repetition. Additionally, the school’s copies have been becoming tattered and torn, to the point where it’s nearly illegible.”

“I know,” the principal said. “And I’m sorry, I really am. Do you think you could buy them yourself?”

Castiel winced, and gave her a wry smile for her effort. “I think I’d be better off with stealing them, in that matter.”

She exhaled her laughter. “Castiel, I truly wish I could help. But you know how much we’re struggling already. Books are far from our most important issue. You of all people know this: you control the profit from the concert, and I have full faith in your abilities to make the best decisions regarding that.”

Castiel thought about the leaky pipes and the broken water fountains and outdated textbooks, the cracks in the walls and the lack of enough trumpets. He cross referenced it with an estimate of the crowd for tomorrow’s concert, minus the intermission snacks and decoration costs. He sighed.

“I understand,” he said. “That’s all. Have a nice day.”

“You too, Castiel,” the principal said, looking genuinely contrite. “Good luck on the concert tomorrow.”

“You’re coming, right?” Castiel asked.

“Are you kidding?” she smiled. “I haven’t missed a single one in years.”

Castiel opened the door to step outside, but faltered when she called out her name.

“And, Castiel?” she said, face softening. “Take care of yourself, alright? I’m so grateful for everything you do for the school, I really am, but you’re allowed to spend some time for yourself once in a while, you know. Have some fun. Do something exciting.”

“Of course,” Castiel said, already halfway out the door. “Tonight, I’ll go for a walk by the lake instead of the forest.” He shot a grin at her before closing the door.

The route from the school was intrinsic and etched into each groove of his gas pedal and flick of a signal, each timed to perfection through nearly a decade of practice. Still, he drove home with a hazy, off-kilter feeling, the mention of Dean Winchester setting off all the alarms in his head and ripping the carpet out from where he once stood strong and steady; roots torn and foundation toppled. 

In high school, Castiel had lived in a house on the other side of town, just a walking distance from the school. After he had graduated, he had moved to the house he lived in now. By the time he’d gotten his diploma, his parents and brother had moved away.

His current house was smaller, but neater; compact and cozy and well-worn from the faded welcome mat to the rusted door hinge, squeaking gently as he swung it open as if to greet him home.

Before his conversation with the principal, he had stayed at the school late for choir rehearsal, fine-tuning the soloists and drilling their arrangements until it was near perfect. It was nearly five by the time he got home, so he set out preparing dinner right away: chicken alfredo with a side salad. He would go for a walk afterwards, and maybe see the neighbours’ dogs on the way.

He hadn’t been joking about the lake. Over the years, Castiel had established a firm routine, and he stuck by it faithfully through each and every day. It wasn’t a conscious decision; more of something he’d settled into, and by the time he’d noticed, he was already so steadily slotted in that he didn’t see a need to change. He was content, despite the occasional scourge to pay the bills and the school’s struggle with money. He was okay with it, the way he never saw more than what was within the comfortable bubble of the town he’d known for all his life. 

Dean had been the opposite. Constantly on-the-go, willing for something different, something better, something more. Tapping fingers and darting eyes and always, always, moving. Castiel recalled snippets of drifted conversation, murmured words under the veil of a smoky sky. How Dean couldn’t wait to move out. How he was so excited to get out of this tiny stupid town that Castiel loved so much.

His phone rang. Castiel gave the pot a brief stir before reaching for it. It was an unknown number, and Castiel frowned; he rarely got calls, and they were either from his parents or his brother, and those were on Sundays or emergencies only and, either way, he had those numbers memorized. He had paid all his bills earlier that week.

Searching his brain for a loose end and finding none, Castiel decided on a spam caller. He declined.

Almost immediately, it rang again.

Frowning, Castiel pressed _answer,_ and put the phone on speaker before returning to the kitchen and mixing in the sauce with the cooked noodles.

“Hello?” he said.

“Castiel? Is that you?”

For a moment, Castiel blanked. Then, he said, “Dean?”

“Yeah.” Now that he had landed on the source, it was clear: Castiel could remember that voice anywhere. It had dropped in a few tones since then, lower, more comfortable, but the slow drawl was unmistakable. “Is this Castiel?”

“Yes. Hello, Dean.”

“Oh.” Surprise. “Wow. Your, uh. Your voice changed.” _A lot_ went unsaid.

“I did have to hit puberty eventually,” Castiel said without thinking.

Dean laughed into the speaker, but not in a way that Castiel recognized. Where he had only known a nasally snort, Dean now sounded softer. Less grating. “Guess so,” he murmured.

There was a pause, then, until Castiel finally caught up to current events, and hostility found its way to the front. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“What, I can’t just call an old classmate?”

“Not if it’s me,” Castiel said.

He could practically hear Dean wince and withdrawal. He waited for the inevitable comeback, but nothing came. Instead, all there was was an in and out of breaths, slightly unsteady.

It took so long that Castiel eventually gave in. “What do you want, Dean?”

“Charlie told me about her idea. The, uh, you as a guest star thing.”

“And?”

“Are you? Doing it, I mean?”

“Does it matter?” Castiel asked. “It’s not as if you’d want me there.”

“I never said that.”

“So you want me there?” Castiel raised an eyebrow, even though Dean couldn’t see it. “Dean, don’t worry. I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“Do I really need to answer that question?”

A heavy exhale, frustration-ridden. “If you were to be on the show, it would be—good. Beneficial.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“It would make the show a lot more in-depth. More detailed. You know everything about this town. The viewers would love it.”

“Are you serious?” Castiel felt astonishment, hard and furious, gritting in his voice. “Do you think I care about your show?”

“Castiel, please.” It was nearly strange to hear Dean’s voice so placating. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, you did,” Castiel said. “It’s fine. I get it. But still—no. I’m sure you’ll get enough viewers from your face alone.”

There was an incredulous sound from the other side. “Seriously?”

“Or, how about a shirtless scene. That’ll really get them going.” Castiel muttered, knowing he was being cruel, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Maybe, this way, they’d even the scale.

Dean began to say something before he cut it off, paused, and started again, words tight and controlled. “How about this, then? You need money. I know you do; I’ve seen the state of the school. If you’re on the show, you’re a guest star. You’ll get a third of the salary.”

Castiel opened his mouth, and then bit his tongue hard enough to ache.

 _Goddamnit._ Dean had him trapped, and they both knew it.

“Half,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Deal,” Dean said immediately. “Tomorrow, noon, at the school. See you there.”

The dial tone rang in Castiel’s ears like a gavel.


	2. Chapter 2

> _ How can I put you off, when you're a matter of urgency? _
> 
> _ I've got a million things that I need to do, but they're all secondary _
> 
> —Alex Turner, Glass in the Park

Castiel held two different button-ups, one in each hand, feeling like an idiot.

One was maroon, the other navy blue. He wore both equally as frequently. He didn’t know why he was trying to decide on either one today, seeing as, usually, he’d grab whichever was closest and go.

He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. That he didn’t cared. That he was trying to make sure Dean Winchester knew that, that for all the ways he had hurt him, Castiel Novak didn’t let any of it stick. He was going to show him just how much he didn’t care about the way he treated him over five years ago.

Which was, obviously, why he was standing next to his dresser contemplating which shirt to wear.

Castiel huffed in his throat and chose the blue one off some random impulse and before he could second-guess himself. He slid it on and shoved the maroon shirt in his dresser without another glance.

The rest of the day until noon was spent with the same unbalanced feeling as the day before. Castiel tended to his garden in the backyard, weeded and watered his cherry tomatoes and baby spinach alike, but his mind was elsewhere, and he (to his horror) nearly trampled a lazy bumblebee sunning on the deck.

At ten to noon, Castiel grabbed his keys and went out the door.

As he drove towards the school, it was evident that despite whatever secrecy Charlie had attempted to keep, there was only so much she could hide. Castiel thanked the lords that this was a small town, with half the population more in-tune to the local gossip than whatever was on the television these days—who knew what would happen otherwise. Even still, there were a gaggle of teens meandering along the school properties; a dozen or so taking pictures with their phones. Some of them waved at Castiel as he walked by. There were even a few of what appeared to be bodyguards, standing with their backs against the school and ensuring nothing went awry.

Closer to the entrance, there stood two figures. Castiel recognized the now-familiar flame of scarlet hair, but his footsteps faltered as he saw and recognized the other.

Dirty blond and tall, his back turned to Castiel, Dean thumped a hand against Charlie’s back and threw his head back at something she said.

The closer Castiel got, the more apprehensive he became, and the more annoyed at himself he was at being apprehensive. It would be fine. Dean had changed, or so the internet told him. And from their brief conversation last night, he at least wasn’t planning on flinging insults every few seconds.

Also, Castiel really, really needed the money.

With that final thought, Castiel took the last few steps towards the two of them and cleared his throat.

Charlie whirled around first, her face breaking into a grin. 

“Castiel!” she whooped, and closed the distance between them in a few short seconds before crushing him in a hug.

A little flummoxed, Castiel patted her back. From his vantage point, he saw Dean turn around, see him, and freeze, very much in the same way Castiel had upon first hearing Dean’s name a day ago, in that very spot.

Charlie pulled back, still smiling. She had a way of disarming people with her exuberant energy, Castiel noted. “So good to see you, Castiel. I’m so glad you decided to come. Here, let me introduce you!” She waved over three people; two men and a woman, all dressed in black and sporting big, bulky cameras hoisted onto their shoulders. “These are our fantastic cameraman―Ash, Kevin, and Meg. Ash, Kevin, Meg, this is Castiel.”

All three of them waved with their free hand. “Hey, man,” Kevin said cheerfully. “We won’t be talking much during the filming, but we don’t bite.”

“Much,” Meg added, and winked. Ash grinned.

“Not too hard,” Charlie joked. “Aaaand, this is Dean—you probably know that already, but eh.” She turned to Dean and gesticulated between the two of them.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and smiled at Castiel. “Hey,” he said.

“Hello,” Castiel said. It was all he could manage. Turns out, the photos hadn’t done him justice.

He was allowed to notice, of course. Dean Winchester was possibly the most attractive man Castiel had ever seen. Objectively.

Anyway, Castiel argued, Dean was looking right back.

“Come on, let’s get this party started!” Charlie cut in. Simultaneously, both of them coughed and looked away. 

Charlie whirled over to the front doors and, after digging out the special pass lanyard from her pocket and inserting the key, pulled the doors open. She held them for Dean and Castiel both before doing the same for the camera crew.

For all the immediate, thick apprehension between the two of them, palpable enough to cut through like butter, Castiel felt instantly comforted by the halls of the entrance. He tilted his head back and inhaled, not noticing that Dean did the same.

“What are you two doing?” Charlie said, piping up from behind.

Castiel made room for her to interject in the middle, walking between them. “What do you mean?”

Charlie tilted her head back and showingly sniffed a long breath in. She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

Dean grinned. “I’d forgotten about it.” He inhaled again, shaking his head as he let it out through his mouth. “Like rust and old paper.”

“And Old Spice Cologne,” Castiel added before he could stop himself.

Dean swivelled his head to face Castiel, his smile growing wider. “Exactly!”

“Smells weird,” Charlie declared. “You’re telling me six years and the smell hasn’t changed?”

Dean paused, wrinkling his nose thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Not at all. Hey, Castiel, did they fix those leaky pipes yet?”

“They actually did,” Castiel said. “Two years ago. But it started leaking again last Winter.”

“And the broken soap dispenser in the second floor boys’ washroom?”

Castiel shook his head, feigning a mournful expression. “I suspect it will never be the same.”

“You know, I was actually the one who broke it.”

Charlie, Castiel, and three cameras both swivelled to stare. “You’re not serious,” Castiel said.

Dean grinned.

Castiel was incredulous. “How did you even get it off the wall?”

Dean shrugged. “I was trying to climb it. Got a nasty bruise on my leg banging it against the corner when I fell.”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel said, “you are the sole reason thousands of highschool boys caught the flu.”

Dean grinned. “Guilty as charged.” 

“So you were a troublemaker, then?” Charlie inquired.

“Eh. Yeah, kinda.”

“Anything in particular? Pranks, or talking back to the teachers? Weird, crazy dares?”

“All of the above.” Dean voiced Castiel’s thoughts out loud. “Oh, man, crazy dares. Hey, Castiel, remember the time Mr. Sharp found a salamander in his desk?”

“That was you  _ too?” _

Dean threw his head back and laughed. “Most of them were me, probably. Oh, I also got a tattoo as a dare, too. But  _ don’t  _ ask me where it is. Or what it is.” He turned to the cameras and shot them a lascivious wink.

Charlie seemed delighted. “I’m not judging. I’ve got one myself. I’m sure  _ you guys  _ know what it is by now.” She finger gunned the closest camera and made a  _ kapow!  _ sound.

They were walking near the gym by now, and Charlie took this opportunity to ask a few more questions. “Dean, were you into sports, growing up?”

“A little, I guess,” Dean said, and Castiel snorted.

“You were in every sports team available,” Castiel corrected.

“Which were like, two,” Dean argued.

“Football, lacrosse, hockey, and track,” Castiel listed off.

Dean frowned for a moment in thought before relenting. “Yeah, I guess so. Are there more, now?”

Castiel felt his mood, which had become buoyant, sink a little. “No. We actually needed to cut the lacrosse team because of budget issues.”

“Really?” Dean seemed surprised at this, though Castiel didn’t understand why. It was something to be expected from the state of their budget. “What about other things? Clubs, stuff like that? Weren’t you in band? Is that still going?”

“You knew I was in band?” Castiel said.

“Yeah?” Dean cocked his head. “You were first clarinet, man. Hard to miss something like that.”

Castiel made first clarinet second semester of Senior year. He would’ve thought Dean was too busy making out with his flavour of the week or tormenting other students by then to attend the scrappy concerts. “Yes, there is still a band. Two, actually—jazz and concert. A choir, now, too.”

“Nice! That’s really cool.” Dean sounded genuinely interested, and it prompted Castiel to keep talking, tension fissioning out.

“I lead the jazz band and the choir,” he admitted. 

“Really? That’s awesome! You guys doing anything special?”

“Yes, actually,” Castiel said, stumbling at the way Dean seemed to direct his full attention onto him as he spoke, green eyes like a high-focused laser beam. “We have our annual fall concert tonight.”

“Woah.” Dean elbowed Charlie. “Did you plan this, you sneaky son of a bitch?”

“No swearing!” Charlie scolded, but added, “Bitch!” right after, which Castiel thought was humorously hypocritical of her. Maybe it was a catchphrase. “Also, no. The world works in strange ways, my friend.”

“I guess it does,” Dean said. “But anyway, we’re totally going to that concert tonight. Cas, how much are the tickets?”

Castiel tried to hide his surprise at the use of the nickname. He hadn’t heard that in—long enough. “You don’t have to pay,” he said. He suspected Dean Winchester being there would skyrocket the number of attendees anyway, but Dean rolled his eyes and looked at Castiel with an expectant look until he gave in. “Ten dollars per person, twenty for a family of four.”

Dean stopped walking, causing a ripple effect down the line until they had all reached a halt. He reached into the pocket of his well-worn jeans and dug out a crumpled pile of bills, which he nudged against Castiel’s fingers until he grasped them with clumsy ones of his own. “There you go,” he said, in a satisfied voice. “What time?”

“Seven,” Castiel said, slightly bewildered.

“Perfect! I can go back to my trailer, shower, get some shut-eye, and come right back. Whaddya say, Charlie?”

“Sounds great to me.” Charlie seemed to be both amused and delighted by this turn of events.

Castiel smoothed out the bills and gawped at them. “Dean, this is  _ fifty _ dollars.”

“Ye-e-eah,” Dean said. “Me, Charlie, Ash, Kevin, and Meg. Family of five.”

Castiel blinked for a moment before it hit him, and he glanced back at the camera crew, whose smiles were bright enough to rival the sun. “Oh,” he said, feeling disconcertingly touched.

“Of course, without all the heavy lifting,” Charlie cut in. “We wouldn’t want to make a ruckus. Would you be okay if I brought in a camera, though? A small, handheld one?”

“I’ll have to ask the students for permission to be filmed,” Castiel said. “And you may need to blur out some faces. But bring it just in case.”

“Gotcha.” Charlie gave him a thumbs-up. “Bonus segment completed: fall concert!”

_ “Awesome,” _ Dean said.

“Let’s keep moving,” Charlie said, and off they went.

The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion. They moved through the school methodically. Dean would occasionally interject with a throwback anecdote of his, Castiel would catch him up on the state of the school nowadays, and Charlie would ask a question or two—though mostly she hung back and allowed the two of them to fall into a natural speech. Castiel recalled a nugget of information he had read from his research session yesterday, discussing the way Charlie did her best to ensure a smooth, organic effect to her shows.

The day was going so well, in fact, that Castiel had nearly forgotten why he was feeling so anxious about being on the show. 

At least, until they reached the third floor. 

Conversation had been flowing easy and smooth. Castiel found himself openly smiling, making his own remarks back at Dean, answering questions with ease.

When they stopped outside the science room, ready to make their way back downstairs, Charlie cleared her throat. “Now, Dean, I totally get it if you don’t want to answer,” she started (which was  _ never  _ a good thing a sentence could start off with, and Castiel felt his attention sharpen), “but, a small town like this—how was the attitude towards the LGBTQ? You’re out and proud now, but were the situations different growing up?”

Castiel felt his shoulders stiffen up, and he fixated his gaze on the window above the staircase, where he could see a thick blanket of fog rolling in. It would probably rain tonight, he thought, and hoped the concert wouldn’t be affected.

He knew that, on past occasions, Dean clammed up when asked about his past and disregarded it with a  _ no comment  _ or a vague joke. He wondered if it would be different this time—for one reason or another, he wasn’t sure.

“I don’t really like to think about it,” Dean said, and Castiel, inexplicably, felt a heavy wave of disappointment. “It doesn’t matter anymore, now, doesn’t it? Why dwell on the past?”

“Well, that’s what this show’s all about, baby,” Charlie said lightly, neutrally.

“Huh. In that case, I like to think of it more as a comparison than a flashback. If that makes any sense at all.” Dean chuckled. “Man, I think all these school fumes are reverting me back to English class. I had to bullshit my way through all those essays.”

“Amen to that,” Charlie said, graciously accepting Dean’s change of topic and moving along.

“Castiel here, though,” Dean said. “Bet he never bullshitted a single word in his life. Best student in all the classes, I swear.”

“Is that true, Castiel?” Charlie prodded.

Castiel could only shrug. 

“Modest as fu—as hell, too,” Dean said. “I’m not surprised he’s a teacher, now. He won  _ Brainiac  _ in yearbook—twice. Valedictorian for graduation. I think Sammy cried hearing your speech. It was that good, man.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, feeling a little overwhelmed at the sudden influx of information about him.

“Just saying it how it is,” Dean said. “You were always the smart one, Castiel. Still are.”

It wasn’t much longer, after that. They concluded their tour with a sweep of the gym, where Dean told a story about how he’d gotten a concussion from walking into the door once because he was too busy laughing at someone else who had slipped on melted snow in front of him. (Castiel still remembered that, and recalled it fondly.)

Back outside of the school, Dean and Charlie waved goodbye as Castiel pulled out of the parking lot.

It was only after he’d passed the halfway mark, driving past the laundromat, that Castiel allowed himself to properly freak out.

What the hell was Dean playing at? The way he accepted Castiel’s jibes without a blink and shot them back with a playful friendliness rather than malice, the way he smiled so easily and talked so softly, the way he’d  _ smothered  _ Castiel in compliments at the end, there, without a smidge of mockery detected.

Despite it all, though, Castiel focused on one point: Dean still wasn’t owning up to his past. He took his anecdotes and senior pranks gracefully, but avoided the heavier subjects like the plague. And, ultimately, that was his weak spot.

Maybe Dean  _ had  _ changed, in more ways than one and all for the better, but Castiel promised himself that, unless he faced his mistakes and apologized instead of running away, he wasn’t going to give him forgiveness all that easily.

-+-+-+-

True to his predictions, after taking a shower and changing into formal blacks (slacks and a blazer), Castiel glanced out the window to see a stormy grey sky, hovering on the brink of breaking. Rain or shine was the eternal policy, and this was absolutely not his first rodeo. He grabbed his conductor’s score, and headed towards the school for the second time that day.

It was six when he entered the auditorium, and to his surprise, there were already a few students there.

“Mr. Novak?” Claire asked as they carried chairs from the storage room out to the stage. “Is it true that Dean Winchester’s coming to the concert tonight?”

Goddamn, Castiel thought, and wondered, not for the first time, if the school was bugged. “I’m not sure, Claire, but if he is, you’re going to sing and play extra well so that he’ll be impressed, right?”

Claire snorted, and ran ahead of him to greet another friend who’d just arrived.

The attendees start to file in at around 6:45. Mostly parents, most of whom Castiel recognized and greeted at the door, some younger and older siblings, and a few new faces, as each new year seemed to bring. 

Dean was nowhere in sight.

The performers, as Castiel had expected, were ecstatic to hear the possibility of Charlie being in the audience, and agreed voraciously to being filmed. With five minutes before showtime, Castiel sent out a quick text to Charlie confirming the cameras.

When seven o’clock rolled around and Castiel hurried to the back so that he could direct the jazz band to the stage to play their opening piece, his assumptions that Dean was running late had been replaced with the darker, more hard-to-swallow fact that he had, simply, not shown up. Perhaps it had all been a persona for the cameras. It left a bad taste in his mouth that he couldn’t rinse out with the slug of water he chugged down before heading for the stage, baton in hand, to conduct the first piece,  _ Hay Burner. _

Castiel had loved band in high school. He’d picked up the clarinet in freshman year and fell in love ever since, and he dedicated all of that to his old music teacher, Ms. Gladding. She’d coaxed him into taking the course, and he never looked back. She had given him the strength to approach the principal and ask to start a jazz band, then a choir a year after.

It had been a bumpy start to begin, filled with scattered musicians with interest that flared like fireworks and died down just as quick, but Castiel had a relentless, rock-solid tenacity that often brought his parents and teachers to a grinding halt when he was younger, so there was no chance of him backing down, and slowly, progress steadied out and began to grow.

Today, on its fourth year of performing the fall concert, Castiel could still pick out the occasional squeak and forgotten accidental, but he thought back to what it had grown from, and when he bowed to the applause from the crowd, he felt pride like a warm ember ballooning in his chest. 

There was no time to scan the crowds and pick out the individual proud smiles before the curtains were drawn, and the stage was being filled with hushed, nervous murmurs as the concert band filed in for their rendition of  _ Greensleeves, _ led by the arts teacher, Mrs. Montgomery. Castiel only had enough time to direct his choir through a quick warm-up and a fifteen-second pep talk before they were heading back out. He was asked the same question—was Dean Winchester here?—and he responded with the same answer. Then, they were standing onstage, and Castiel lifted his baton in the air.

This was the third year of choir, and, unlike the jazz band, it had started off strong and only grew stronger. Castiel didn’t know the reason behind it, suspected something to do with the sudden popularity rise of  _ The Voice,  _ but chalked the rest up to coincidence, plain and simple as that. The song he had chosen this year was a song he’d learned from church, one his mother used to sing to him on lazy afternoons out in his backyard, where Castiel would sit in the grass and watch the bees flit from one dandelion to another while his mother sat in the bedsheet-turned-hammock that stretched between two trees, swinging with her feet and singing with her eyes closed, face turned to the sky to feel the sunshine.

When the song ended, it was with a trail of voices, echoing the final line from soloist to soloist until it drifted off into the air, suspended for a second before dissipating into utter silence, tension held steady, nearly quivering, like a glass of too-full water, domed on the surface.

Castiel turned around and gestured for the students to bow along with him, and the applause began anew.

He straightened, the concert ended, and, as Mrs. Montgomery led all the rest of the students to file onto the stage in a mass of bodies and hands, allowed himself to scan the audience. He caught the teary eyes, the wide smiles and hands clutched to chests and the grinning, waving little siblings, and let them fill his heart with gratitude and remind himself why he got up at 6:30 in the morning every Tuesday for rehearsal.

He sent his gaze to the upper corner, and a flash caught his eye. A camera.

He looked to the bearer, and his breath caught as he saw Charlie, beaming and clicking away furiously at the crowd of students. Pulse suddenly growing faster, Castiel looked to the right of Charlie, and saw the faces of the cameramen.

If they were here, that meant… 

They were sitting at the very top left corner of the auditorium seats. Castiel looked higher, to the standing area, and there he was.

Dean was wearing a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap with his hair tucked in. He had on a nondescript band tee with faded jeans. He was leaning up against the wall with his hands in his pockets. When Castiel saw him, his right hand reached up and pushed his sunglasses up to reveal his eyes.

It was too dim to see his expression. Castiel could only see the heavily-shadowed curves of his features, accentuated by the shade.

The lights in the auditorium began to swing into brightness. Dean put his sunglasses back on. As the audience began to stand, shuffling out of their seats and climbing the stairs, Dean melted into the crowd and Castiel lost sight of him in seconds.

Castiel’s attention was forcibly turned back to the students. Take-down was swift, adrenaline speeding up the process into a matter of mere minutes until Castiel declared all of them a godsend and set them free to their loving families.

He hung back for a while after that, shaking hands and speaking to parents about music lessons and their individual students. By the time he took a final glance at the school, tied up all the loose ends, and made his way out the doors, it was late enough to just see the stars. The sky had darkened into a rich purple, heavy clouds still hanging over the sky.

“Hey.”

Castiel jolted. He swung around.

“Dean?”

Dean pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on. He had a black bomber jacket over his tee, now, his sunglasses tucked into the collar. His cap was still on. “That was amazing,” he said. “I wish we had something like that back when we were in highschool.”

“Better late than never,” Castiel said. Dean shrugged. “Where’s Charlie? And the crew?”

“They left,” Dean said simply. “They gotta do all the heavy lifting now. Editing and all that.”

Castiel nodded. “What about you?”

Dean paused, then fixed Castiel with an indecipherable look. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I was planning to just now.”

“Same here,” Dean said. “How about the Roadhouse?” He canted his head to the side. “Is that place still open?”

“It is, actually,” Castiel said. “Ellen passed it down to Jo when she retired.”

“Sweet. Then she knows the family recipe.” Dean dashed out a smile. “Wanna come with?”

Castiel startled. “What?”

Dean shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, the only crack in his mask of perfect casualness. “We can have dinner together.”

Castiel was instantly suspicious. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“No,  _ why?”  _ Castiel said, and tried to think clearly through the muddled clutter in his mind. “Dean, what are you trying to do, here? Why are you acting like this?”

“Maybe today was a good filming day. Maybe I thought you did such an awesome job conducting that I wanted to celebrate it. Maybe I miss those burgers.” His voice was still light, but his face gave away his apprehension. It was his eyes, Castiel remembered—they revealed everything, even when the rest of his features remained stoic.

“Tell me the truth,” Castiel said. “I think I deserve that much.”

Dean’s face shuttered, and he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just want us to be friends again,” he muttered.

“Like that worked out so well last time,” Castiel deadpanned.

Dean winced. “It’s not like that, I promise,” he said. “I know I made mistakes, okay. I know that.”

Castiel chewed on his lip. Dean appeared genuinely sincere. Maybe, if he was being truthful, they could take the first step towards reconciliation. Friendship, and nothing more.

If it was nothing more, then perhaps Castiel could deal.

He still didn’t know if it was a good idea, but he said, “Okay,” and watched Dean’s face break into a smile.

“But we’re taking my car,” Dean added.

Castiel frowned. “I need my car,” he said.

Dean waved a dismissive hand. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right,” he said, which made absolutely no sense. “Besides, my car is cooler.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“I need to drive home afterwards.”

“I’ll drop you off.”

“I need to drive to the filming location tomorrow.”

“I’ll drop you off back here so you can drive home.”

“It might rain. My umbrella is in my car.”

Dean scoffed. “It’s not gonna rain.”

“Dean, look at the sky.”

“Nah. It’s fine. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

Castiel sighed. “Fine.”

Dean grinned. “Come on, then.”

He took off, and Castiel, despite all his better judgement, followed.

Dean led him to his car in the parking lot: the same sleek black Impala he had driven since the start of Junior year, and Castiel suspected even before that. The seats were old and softened with time, and Castiel watched as Dean ran a loving hand along the dash before starting the engine with a rough purr that sent a pleasant shiver down his neck.

Dean weaved through the few cars left in the parking lot before taking off, faster than Castiel would've driven, but that was to be expected. Castiel recalled many a morning where he'd be greeted by the sight of the same car he was sitting in now blaring down the streets, windows rolled down and Dean's arm resting out the window, his brother Sam in the passenger seat.

"How's Sam?" Castiel asked. It was a common thing to hear Dean’s brother’s name echoing through the school, even today: If Sam Winchester got into Stanford from this Podunk town, so can you.

"Oh man, Sam," Dean said, a buoyancy suddenly in his voice. "He went into criminal defence. Got himself a fancy shmancy job at a law firm and making the big bucks."

"That's great," Castiel said.

"It is," Dean agreed. "What a nerd." His voice was filled with warmth. "You and him woulda' got along swimmingly."

"We did," Castiel mused. "I saw him at the library a few times in my university years."

Dean's head swivelled around to look at Castiel, sacrificing the view of the road for a brief moment. "You did?"

Castiel nodded. "I helped him study for his SATs."

Dean whistled. "Damn. He never told me."

"Perhaps that was because you avoided me like the plague," Castiel said before he could stop himself.

He watched Dean's grip tighten on the steering wheel. "Cas—" Dean started haltingly. "Can we not talk about that?"

"Why not?" Suddenly, the tension in the car was thick. "It happened, didn't it?"

"Well—yes, but—" They were already in the parking lot of the diner that Castiel was beginning to regret agreeing to. "Things are different now, Cas. I'm different."

And the thing was, Castiel knew that. He wasn't delusional enough to dismiss the obvious: whatever had happened in the span of senior year until now, Dean had morphed into something more mature, a little less sharp edges and a little more of the full-world awareness Castiel had seen in Sam. But it couldn't smother the anxious prickling along the neck.

“I know,” Castiel said. “But it still doesn’t change the past.”

Frustrated, Dean hit a palm against the side of the steering wheel before turning into a parking space and killing the engine. “Can’t you see that I’m trying?”

He shot a terse look towards Castiel, then sighed and thumped his head against the seat. He huffed out a breath. “Sorry. Nevermind. C’mon, let’s go.”

Inside the diner, the tension was still there, just ready to swoop in, but dissipated with the arrival of Jo, who, upon seeing Dean, let out a shocked yell and barrelled him into a bear hug.

The air  _ whumped  _ out of Dean’s chest as he automatically wrapped the other up in his arms, hefting her a good few inches up into the air, seemingly effortlessly.

“Dean  _ fucking  _ Winchester,” Jo muttered, disengaging herself from the hug before punching Dean on the shoulder with a solid hit. “What the hell are you doing here? Don’t you have some hotshot movie to shoot?”

“Hotshot TV show, more like,” Dean said. “Right here, right now, sweetheart.”

_ “Here?”  _ Jo said incredulously. “Hold on—grab a seat.”

She ushered them to a booth and handed both of them menus before hurrying to the kitchen for a pitcher of water.

Castiel looked at Dean’s small, cheerful smile, and felt bewildered. Castiel hadn’t been to this diner often (he preferred to eat at home more often than not), but on the rare celebratory occasions that he did, Jo Harvelle was notoriously known as the waitress whose bite was just as bad, if not worse, as her bark. He had seen an instance where a particularly nasty trucker had leered and quipped at her from the back, only for him to exit the restaurant holding a napkin to his bloody nose. She’d earned her respect fair and square.

Castiel would have thought, in Dean’s notorious final year of cycling through girls, Jo would despise him. But the way she was grinning at them now told an entirely different story.

“You know Jo?” he said, deciding to press the topic. “She seems to… like you.”

Dean’s cheeks turned pink, and he shrugged. “I helped her out a few years ago.”

“After moving away?” 

“Yeah,” Dean said, just as Jo arrived with two glasses of water.

“Ready to order?” she asked.

Dean smiled up at her. “Burger and fries for me,” he said. “And I’ll see if it’s as good as it was in high school.”

“Better,” Jo said firmly. “You, Castiel?”

Castiel ordered a cheeseburger, and Jo skipped away with their orders and menus in hand.

Dean was twisting around in his seat, his eyes bright and darting all around. “It’s like nothing changed,” he said, sounding awed. “The jukebox, the menus, even the tablecloth.”

“Jo did a very good job at maintaining the place,” Castiel agreed.

“You still come here often, then?”

“Not much. I mostly cook at home.”

“You do a lot of cooking, then?”

“Nowadays, yes,” Castiel admitted. “I’ve learned. The first time I tried making pasta, I caught the pot on fire because I didn’t know there was supposed to be water in it.”

Dean laughed, and they fell into conversation, previous topic dropped and forgotten.

As the night progressed, Castiel learned things about Dean that he hadn’t previously expected, nor would even consider could be true. Dean was eager to ask about the changes in the local restaurants and shops, and happily pestered Castiel with questions about himself: how he was doing lately, how his family was doing, even if he’d ever considered getting a pet.

The food arrived quickly, and when Dean took a bite out of the burger, grease oozing down his fingers, and blatantly moaned, Castiel found himself laughing along with Jo rather than the expected discomfort he would’ve otherwise reacted with.

There was something so disarming about the way Dean spun his stories into something gripping and compelling, how he watched Castiel talk in a way that seemed like it was all he wanted to hear, even if it were something simple—like how Castiel fed a baby kitten he found in the forest with a paintbrush and a bowl of milk until it regained its strength, and gave it to his neighbours and their two ecstatic children. For all he could help himself, Castiel couldn’t help but remember the old Dean: the Dean he had sat next to on the first day of Junior year and promptly became friends with, the new kid who was funny and kind in all the right ways.

After all, things had only gone wrong after their friendship became something more. Perhaps, this way, they would maintain that delicate balance. He allowed himself to hope.

He sank so far into comfort that they stayed and talked long after their meals were finished, until the night grew darker and the other guests slowly headed out the door.

When they finally got up to leave, Castiel reached for his wallet, only for Dean to stop him with a harsh slice of his hand. 

“I’ve got it, Cas,” Dean said.

“No, it’s fine,” Castiel said.

“Nuh-uh,” Jo said, and crossed her arms. “You two don’t have to pay. Especially after what Dean did for the diner.”

Castiel watched as Dean groaned, and turned a curious eye on Jo. “What did Dean do?”

“Remember when the diner almost went out of business because of that stupid lawsuit?” Jo said. “That one visitor with the allergies?”

Castiel nodded. It had been a common topic from a few years ago, near the end of his university years, so he had only heard from glimpses and passes through phone calls and emails. It had been a whole ruckus for a good few weeks until, one day, it all seemed to die down, and the restaurant flourished without a bump afterwards.

“Well, Dean here pulled some strings and got a lawyer to take on the case. He worked with Sam for weeks until they had a defence good enough to argue for the diner. It was amazing—Ellen was so glad, she nearly kissed the judge.”

“It was mostly Sam,” Dean argued. “And I should be the one thanking you. If it weren’t for that, Sam might have never realized how much of a hard-on he has for law.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Dean. Just get outta here.”

Dean grinned at her, and hugged her again, kissing her on the cheek with a loud showy smack before they were ushered out the door with a jangle of the bell.

The air greeted Castiel in a spray of rain and heavy winds. The weather seemed to be worsening, and Castiel hoped it would be better by tomorrow, otherwise the filming would go poorly.

The thought made him stumble for a moment—Castiel had nearly forgotten about the show entirely.

Standing right under the overhang, the two of them stopped. Castiel turned to Dean, who was blinking at the downpour as if boggling at it hard enough would make it go away.

“It’s fine,” Castiel quoted Dean, deadpan. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

Dean said, “Uh. Sorry about that.”

Castiel ran his hands down the sleeves of his blazer and felt oddly self-conscious. It wasn’t as if it would be destroyed, he supposed.

But before he could step out of the overhang of the building and into the rain, there was suddenly a flurry of movement next to him. A moment later, he was being draped in something heavy and warm.

It was being tugged around his shoulders and through his arms before Castiel could even react. He looked over to see Dean, whose arms were bared in his t-shirt as he maneuvered the jacket so that Castiel was wearing it properly.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel found the strength to say.

“That blazer looks pretty expensive,” Dean said. “Wouldn’t want it to get wet.”

Castiel protested. “But what about you?”

Dean made a big show of glancing down at his t-shirt, smoothing his hands down the planes of his chest. “I think I got this shirt for five bucks at a thrift store,” he said. “I don’t think it’ll do much damage.”

Castiel tried to respond, but then Dean circled his forearm with a light hold of his fingers and tugged him down the curb and onto the asphalt. He felt the raindrops hitting his head, dripping dots of pressure on his arms and neck.

The jacket was shockingly soft.. Castiel could smell Dean on it, a blend of something subtly spicy. He tugged it closer as a particularly-strong breeze hit them both, shivering.

The tiny rational voice in Castiel whispered a little jibe at strictly-platonic friend behaviours and their deviations. Castiel ignored it.

Dean seemed acclimated to the cold, or he hid it well, because he simply smiled at Castiel and kept leading him across the pavement as they cut across the parking lot, weaving between cars that showed their reflection through rain-slicked windows. Their shoes splashed in puddles where the concrete dipped and cracked.

The Impala shone in the night, the yellow glow of the streetlamp bathing down onto the metal body and making it gleam. Castiel had to appreciate the marksmanship of it; despite the environmental standpoint, it was sleek and gorgeous and obviously well cared for.

He watched Dean as he patted the hood lovingly before sliding into the driver's seat, and after settling into the other side himself, approached casually, "You seem to take good care of your car."

"She's my baby," Dean said, sounding pleased that Castiel had noticed. "It was my project the summer before Junior year started. I wanted to be a mechanic, then." He laughed, too quietly to be humorous, with a tinge of melancholy. "Guess that didn't really work out, huh."

"Did you not want to be an actor?" Castiel said.

Dean adjusted the rearview mirror and met Castiel's eyes in the reflection. "Nah," was the simple response. "It just... kinda happened."

"Do you enjoy it, though?"

There was a heavy pause. "I guess," Dean said, subdued. "It's alright. I mean, I really can't complain. I'm lucky I got this job, man."

"But you'd rather be a—a mechanic?"

"Maybe." Dean shrugged. "Truth be told, I'm not really sure what I want to be. Didn't know then, and I still don't know now." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and shot a look at Castiel. "You, though—did you always want to be a teacher?"

"Absolutely." Castiel nodded. "I wanted to pass on the gift of knowledge, so to speak. It's very fulfilling to me."

"That's great, Cas," Dean said. "I'm sure you're amazing at it. Bet the kids all love you."

"I think they enjoy making fun of me for not understanding their references more than anything else," Castiel said absently.

"Nah, man," Dean said breezily. "You're a regular John Keating."

"Captain, My Captain," Castiel muttered, and Dean laughed.

"I'm serious, though," he said after making a particularly-steep turn, splashing up an arc of water with his tires. "They respect you. I saw you command, like, eighty people to bow at the same time tonight. And all of them helped with takedown after the concert. Now that's impressive. Remember when the principal would try to tag us all down after assemblies to stack chairs?"

Castiel felt a smile tugging at his lips. "He would chase us down the halls," he recounted.

"Yeah! And then he tripped over a chair and broke his arm."

"And so many people signed the cast, it turned completely black."

“Oh, actually, that’s because someone drew a dick on it. He had to cover it up.”

Castiel choked. 

"Good times," Dean said. "Anyway, point being: you single handedly guided those rascals into singing a song that damn pretty? Miracle worker, I'm telling you."

"It was hardly a difficult harmony," Castiel said, though he was just as proud.

"Sounded amazing, though," Dean said. "What was it?"

"The last song?" Castiel confirmed. _ "Down to the River to Pray." _

Dean hummed in acknowledgement. "It was real nice. I already forgot how it went, though," he said, at the same time as he reached the parking lot of the school, turning to park right next to Castiel's car, which was still in the same place as it was right before the concert.

He killed the engine, and then, instead of unlocking the doors, he turned towards Castiel with an expectant look on his face.

Castiel didn't understand for a moment, and then he tilted his head incredulously. "You want me to sing it to you?"

Dean smiled cheekily, with the corners of his mouth only, and that was answer enough.

Castiel shook his head diligently, and those corners turned down and pushed out in something that resembled a pout. Dean's eyes seemed to shine in the darkness like a cat's.

“Seriously, Dean?” Castiel mumbled.

“Please?” Dean batted his eyelashes in a way that should’ve been completely ridiculous.

Feeling vaguely ridiculous and knowing that he was blushing all the way to his ears, Castiel cleared his throat, hummed in search of a comfortable range, and began to sing.

His voice began hoarse, crackly from a lack of warm-up, but a few lines in, it began to melt into something richer, a low tenor that his mother had called "gravel and whiskey" with a kiss to his forehead. With that thought, Castiel felt himself close his eyes and fall deeper into the melody, let it pull him into that nostalgic, quiet space, one of the familiar phenomenons he loved so much about music.

He sang a shortened version, two verses and a chorus, and he let his voice trail away in a gentle whisper before letting the tension out with a sigh and reopening his eyes.

Dean was still watching him. Maybe had been watching him the whole time.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Castiel ducked his head.

"Tomorrow," he said, the word feeling strange without a proper pitch to its tone. "Your old house? Charlie told me."

"Yeah," Dean said. His voice was rough. "Do you need the address? I can give you my number."

"No need," Castiel said. "I have Charlie's already." He slid across his seat and put his hand on the handle, urging Dean to unlock it. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Wait," Dean blurted.

Castiel stilled.

"I, uh..." Dean trailed off. "Nevermind," he muttered, and with a flick of his fingers unlocked the door. "See ya, Cas. Goodnight."

"Goodbye, Dean," Castiel replied, and walked the two steps across to his own car, digging in his pockets and pulling out his keys.

When he exited the parking lot, Dean's Impala was still sitting in the parking lot, a shadowy figure in the driver's seat, unmoving and alone.

It was only when Castiel got home that he realized he was still wearing Dean's jacket, hugging his shoulders in a steady embrace.


	3. Chapter 3

> _ Will you stay with me tonight _
> 
> _ And pretend it's all alright? _
> 
> _ Tell me that you love me _
> 
> _ The way you used to love me _
> 
> —James Smith, Tell Me That You Love Me

Sunday was the second day of filming, and it was to take place at Dean's house.

Dean lived a few streets down from Castiel, where the majority of parents settled down due to the proximity to the school. Castiel recalled hot summer days where he'd walk down the streets to the public library down the hill, and seeing him outside in the sun, shooting hoops or skateboarding with Sam or other friends.

He remembered how Dean used to call him over and throw the basketball at him with a smile. He remembered how,  _ after, _ Castiel would take the long way around to avoid him.

That morning, when Castiel slid on the maroon button-up and headed downstairs for breakfast before he needed to meet the rest of the crew at Dean's house, that memory was a dark spot in his thoughts. But as he grabbed the jacket he’d hung up the night before, he played with the sleeve, recalling Jo’s grateful smile and Dean’s serious eyes, and felt hopelessly conflicted, unsteady on his feet.

To Castiel’s relief, the sky had cleared up significantly since last night, and the clouds were white and fluffy. He parked his car at the side of the street when he arrived, next to the curb, before walking towards the group of people he could see were there already. He seemed to always be late, but he supposed he was the one who had the least preparations. Did Dean need makeup and hair done before shooting each day? To be perfectly honest, Castiel couldn't even tell.

He gripped the folded jacket as he walked closer to them. Dean was talking to the cameras, but he was facing Castiel, and he quickly saw him approaching and lifted a hand to greet him.

"Speak of the devil," Dean said, closing the distance between them. "Morning, sunshine."

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel said, and held the jacket towards Dean like a peace offering. "You forgot to ask for this back yesterday night."

For a second, Dean looked at the jacket with no recognition whatsoever. Then, his face cleared. "Oh! Right."

"You gave Castiel your jacket?" Charlie piped up curiously, joining the two of them.

"It was raining last night," Dean muttered, and reached out a hand—not to take the jacket, but to push it back into Castiel's chest. "Keep it," he said, and dashed out a smile. "Wear it the next time you leave your umbrella in the car."

"I—what?" 

Dean shrugged. "Or keep it in case it rains again today."

“But it’s sunny,” Castiel said, flummoxed.

Dean groaned. "Cas, just keep it. Consider it a gift."

"A gift," Castiel repeated, dumbfounded.

"Yes," Dean said slowly. "You keep those. Unless it stinks so bad you can't stand to wear it and you were just trying to be nice last night by keeping it on?"

Castiel sputtered. "No," he managed.

Dean grinned. "Then we're done here. Besides, it's kinda chilly today. Put it on."

"You're wearing a t-shirt," Castiel pointed out.

"I run hot," Dean said, and winked. Speechless, Castiel unfolded the jacket and put it back on.

"Attaboy." Dean turned back to Charlie. "Anyway, where were we?"

"We were just about to enter the house," Charlie said. "I talked to the owners already. They're out of the house right now, but they've allowed us to film inside and around the area."

"Awesome," Dean said. "Lead the way."

They approached the house, the garage door open for them to enter. Castiel walked slightly to the right of Dean and Charlie.

Right as he was about to step onto the staircase leading to the door, Dean's arm suddenly shot out and blocked his way.

"Woah there," Dean said, sounding alarmed. "Careful. That part is crumbling."

Castiel looked down at the step, and shot Dean a strange look. "No, it's not," he said, and, to prove it, stepped all the way up to the porch, then turned around to see Dean blink, disorientated.

"Huh," he finally said. "I guess the new owners fixed it."

"This whole place was renovated," Charlie said. "I talked to the owners, and apparently the whole place was on its last breaths."

Dean pushed open the door, and his footsteps stilled. His head twisted around as he looked all throughout the house, something akin to wonder in his eyes.

"Compared to this?" he said.  _ "Oh,  _ yeah." He removed his shoes at the entrance and headed down the hall, a confidence in his strides that spelled out a well-practised path. "Damn, they refurnished everything. I barely recognize it."

"Was the house not as put-together back then, when you were growing up?" Charlie asked. "How was that like? Was it difficult for you at all?"

"Not really," Dean said, craning his neck to look at a particularly-sparkly light fixture. "I got used to it. Besides, I never really planned on living here long enough for it to really break down, either."

"No?" Charlie seemed piqued. "So you knew you were going to move out right away."

"Oh, yeah."

"And why is that?"

Dean glanced back at Charlie, something unreadable flitting across his expression. "Dunno," he said. "Guess I was restless, really.”

Castiel still remembered the process of filming from yesterday at the school, and he was reassured when the procedure turned out to be very much similar. It was also a comfort to realize that, more often than not, he was out of the range of the three cameras.

It made sense, he supposed: the episode was, after all, starring Dean Winchester. In fact, there was really no need for him to be here at all, not for anything other than the first day back at the school. He’d understood Charlie’s point back then, what with him being a teacher at the highschool as well as having grown up in the town, but now that he thought about it with a clearer mind, Dean seemed perfectly eligible to be the sole figure the cameras were trained on. Especially since Castiel knew next to nothing about the house, nor Dean’s family.

While Dean was off rambling to Ash’s camera about the finicky fireplace, Castiel tried to subtly bring this up by sidling next to Charlie and giving her a nudge on the side. She smiled at him, and Castiel recounted his thoughts to her.

“What should I be doing?” he ended up asking.

Charlie surprised him by shrugging. She canted her head towards Dean, who was recalling something about the pains of growing up with a younger brother, gesticulating furiously with his hands.

“Beats me,” she said. “Dean was the one who told me you’d be here for all three days. I figured, you two know each other, it could generate some banter at the very least. And, hey, look at how well that turned out.” With a smile on her face that was slanted in a way that worried Castiel slightly, Charlie hooked her arm into Castiel’s and dragged him to where Dean was in the kitchen.

“So, Dean,” Charlie said. “There’s been a lot of speculation about how you managed to make it big. Was your childhood a big impact on who you are as a person now?”

Dean turned around, saw them, and his face flashed a strange expression before smoothing out into an easy grin. “Isn’t that the case with everyone?”

Charlie was wearing an earpiece—an accessory that had been there for as long as Castiel knew. She tilted her head, seemingly listening to someone on the other side—a producer, perhaps. 

“Well, yeah,” she said out loud, directing it towards Dean. “But was there any inspiration from your family that pushed you to who you are today? Your brother, or your father?”

Castiel frowned, remembering snippets from the articles he had skimmed. Dean’s mother had passed when Dean was young, the details blurry and yet to be uncovered, before Dean moved here with his brother and father. Castiel pieced them together with his recollection of high school, the way it was always Dean making the walk across the field to the neighbouring elementary school to drop his brother off in the morning. How there was never a sight of Dean’s father during parent-teacher meetings.

Dean had always been eager to get out, to escape from this town. Dean was always outside of the house, with Sam or with friends—and during the latter, Castiel would often take the long way around to the library to see Sam curled up in the corner with his nose buried in a book much too advanced for someone his age.

“Dean,” Castiel said, with a sudden insurmountable urge to swipe off the sudden look of great discomfort that had arisen on Dean’s face.

Dean blinked, then in an extraordinary feat, morphed his face into something utterly unbothered in the span of a few seconds. He was an amazing actor, Castiel could give him that. 

Dean turned to Castiel with an easy smile. “Yeah, Cas?”

“I remember seeing you and Sam playing on the streets often, growing up,” Castiel continued. “I saw some rollerblades in the garage, when we came in.” He let a bit of challenge slip into his gaze. “Do you think you still remember how to skate?”

Dean looked stunned for a moment. Then, something akin to gratification surfaced in his eyes.

His smile softened and widened in a way that made Castiel wonder how he ever thought it had looked genuine beforehand. “Hell, yeah,” Dean breathed, and pushed past him to head towards the garage. “Like riding a bike, baby.”

Turns out, Castiel found with great relief, there were in fact several rollerblades in adult sizes.

Contrastingly and to his great horror, after picking out a black-and-red pair in his own size, Dean then peered at Castiel’s shoes, hummed, and then handed a white pair to him.

“No,” Castiel said, holding his hands tightly against his sides in a clear gesture of denial. “I don’t know how to skate.”

“Yet,” Dean said.

“Give them to Charlie,” Castiel offered.

Dean turned to peer at Charlie’s sneakers, before rummaging through the pile of boxes and grabbing a pair the same colour as his own, but slightly smaller. He offered them to Charlie, who squealed and headed over to the stairs to sit on the topmost step, immediately beginning to strap them on.

“She looks like she knows what she’s doing already,” Dean said. He prodded the remaining rollerblades against Castiel’s chest. “Your turn.”

“Dean, I can’t,” Castiel tried.

“I think you can,” Dean said, and then, suddenly, inexplicably, ridiculously, began to roll the rollerblades up and down Castiel’s chest.

Castiel squirmed away, an embarrassing whine escaping. “Stop!”

“Ticklish, huh?” With a menacing, maniacal grin, Dean stalked towards Castiel, brandishing the skates like a weapon. Castiel yelped and backed away, and things quickly devolved.

By the time Dean had Castiel cornered, Castiel’s stomach ached from laughing, and Dean was giving him a full-body noogie with the wheels of the skates.

“Dean,” Castiel managed. “You’re getting my—your—jacket dirty!”

“It’s a good look,” Dean said, unrelenting. “Disheveled and all. I dig it.” He gave Castiel’s side a final poke, before finally taking mercy and stopping. “So, what’s it gonna be? Strap ‘em on!”

Castiel opened his mouth, saw Dean raise his rollerblades threateningly, and quickly changed gear. “I cannot believe you are an older brother,” he said with heavy resignation.

“Hey,” Dean retorted. “I taught Sammy everything he knows. Including how to skate, for your information, and if you’ve seen that kid goin’ at it down the streets, you know I’m a damn good teacher, too.” He dropped the skates in front of Castiel’s feet. “Up and at ‘em, sweetheart.”

Castiel stared at the rollerblades like they were a death sentence. Considering the epic speeds he’d seen Dean and his brother achieve whilst racing down the streets, it wasn’t a far cry from the truth.

Dean, who had headed over to sit next to Charlie with his own skates, hollered at Castiel to hurry up, and Castiel relented. He sighed, and trudged over carrying the skates by the laces to the staircase to join the three of them. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.

-+-+-+-

It was worse.

When Castiel saw Charlie and Dean spinning in circles and skating around the driveway, looking effortlessly graceful for all that mattered, he got a surge of courage and stood up, taking a small step forward.

Immediately, his foot shot out from beneath him. He pinwheeled his arms, taking several steps to balance out his overshoot.

He was just about to give up and accept his fate of a bruised tailbone, when a pair of strong arms wrapped around his sides and held him tight.

“Easy, there,” Dean said, spinning him around. “A little overeager, aren’t we?”

“I was only trying to  _ stand,”  _ Castiel grumbled.

Dean adjusted his hold on Castiel until he had him by the shoulders, and slowly began skating backwards, gliding in a curvy shalom-like path. “Push off with one foot,” he instructed. “Keep your weight on the other—yeah, like that.”

They reached the end of the driveway that way, and by the end, Castiel felt as if he had the hang of it. At least, he wasn’t in danger of toppling over at the slightest breeze. They made their way off the driveway and onto the street with a slight drop at the curb, Dean tightening his hands to stabilize the bump. 

The camera crew was scattered around the driveway, (thankfully) skateless, still with those big cameras hoisted over their shoulders. Charlie skated over to them, her hair flying behind her in the wind. “Hey, bitches,” she called out.

“How come  _ you’re  _ allowed to swear?” Dean complained, making a face.

“I’m the host. I can do whatever I want.” Charlie punched Dean on the shoulder before dashing away, avoiding Dean’s retaliation. She began to skate in circles around the two of them. “You skate a lot as a kid?”

“Enough,” Dean said. “Did plenty of other stuff, too.” He laughed. “We jumped off the shed wearing capes made out of garbage bags. Sam broke his arm.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean added, when Charlie made a noise of concern. “I drove him to the ER on my handlebars. Not our first rodeo.”

“You got into your fair share of trouble as a child,” Castiel murmured. It was true: Dean seemed to be constantly injured in some way or another, from bruises to scrapes to broken bones.

“Eh. Yeah. More than you, that’s for sure.”

“More than the average person,” Castiel rebutted. “You were never one to be careful, from what I recall.”

“Hey, now. What’s the fun in that?” As if to demonstrate, Dean tightened his grip on Castiel’s shoulders and began to speed up. 

Castiel’s eyes widened. “Slow down,” he hissed. 

“You’ll be fine,” Dean soothed. “Trust me.” He twisted his head back to catch sight of where they were going, and then, with a dangerous glint in his eye, suddenly gripped Castiel’s shoulders and swung them around in an one-eighty.

Castiel yelped and stumbled until he caught his footing again. They were going even faster now, and it was so much worse because he had no idea where he was going; could only see the cameramen’s red faces as they struggled to catch up to the two of them.

“Dean!” Castiel felt the air nipping at his ears and was starkly reminded that he didn’t have a helmet on.

Everything around them was a blur of colour, trees and sidewalks and the occasional, curious dogwalker turning their heads. Everything except for Dean, who was laughing with misplaced delight, loud and easy.

“Just hold on tight,” Dean told him, and, an look of concentration in his eye, pumped a few more kicks of power into his stride. The wind whipped his hair up into a fluttering blond halo. Castiel felt pebbles shooting up from the asphalt, ricocheting against his bare, exposed ankles where his jeans rode up from the breeze.

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel hissed, feeling his voice being thrown out, faded, by just how fast they were going. “If you fall and break my arm, I will not take it as well as Sam did."

Dean just laughed. "I'll remember that," he said.

"And I will not accept a signature on my cast as compensation."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I didn't think so," he said. "Guess I'll just have to make sure you don't fall, then."

Dean bit his lip in focus and maneuvered the two of them into a turn. Castiel watched as the cameras grew smaller and smaller, before eventually disappearing. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," was the only response. Castiel sighed, and, against his will, let himself relax in Dean's arms as he was guided up and down the neighbourhood, the directions unfamiliar. He craned his neck, trying to recognize the streets, but Dean was pulling out all the stops and taking all the strange, twisty avenues, and there was a fluttering feeling in Castiel’s gut that made it difficult to think.

"Hey, Cas," Dean's voice came after a while. "You're gonna get your head stuck like that if you keep turning it so much."

"That's not true," Castiel said absently, even if he turned his head back to face Dean when responding.

Dean rolled his eyes. "There we go," he said. "Just let me handle it, alright?"

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea." Castiel chewed on the inside of his lip. "How well do you remember this place, anyway?"

"I guess we'll see," Dean responded vaguely, green eyes trained on the road ahead.

They reached their destination after another minute, signified by Dean's strides growing less frequent before stopping entirely, digging the heel into the pavement with a rough skidding sound as they stumbled to a stop.

Castiel regained his senses and swivelled his head, looking around. They were at the start of a forest trail, right at the junction where concrete blended into grass. At the end of the road stood a few scattered picnic tables, along with a quaint, small shop that spelled  _ Carl's Creamery _ in an old-fashioned cursive print.

Castiel turned back around just as Dean loosened his grip and let go. His shoulders were warmer than the rest of him where Dean's hands rested.

"Ice cream?" he asked dubiously.

"I've been all around the world," Dean replied, "but I've still yet to find ice cream as good as this. Carl sold his soul, I swear." He took Castiel's arm and began tugging him towards the shop

Castiel, legs feeling a little like gelatine after being locked and stiffened for so long, could only roll along helplessly.

"Well, well," Carl said, appearing to the front of the shop. "If it isn't Dean Winchester. Castiel, you didn't tell me we had a visitor."

"I didn't know until Friday, either," Castiel admitted. "How are you, Carl?"

"Better now that I've got some business," Carl joked. The ice cream shop was flourishing, and both of them knew it. It was the perfect location and the best way to end a long nature walk. "What can I get for you two?"

"Cherry," Dean said. "Two scoops. Sprinkle some graham crackers on top, too."

"Haven't changed, I see," Carl said. "And for you?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Castiel said. He never really cared much for overly-sweet things, and ice cream always made his teeth hurt. Most of his visits here had been due to Gabriel's constant pestering, and after their parents gave in and bought two cones, it always led to Castiel giving his unfinished portion to a sugar-happy Gabriel.

This apparently did not sit well with Dean. "No way," he said. "Cas, choose something. My treat. I brought you all the way here," he whined when Castiel didn't budge. "Please?"

"Why?" Castiel managed.

Dean shrugged. "You like ice cream, don't you?"

"Not particularly."

"Blasphemy," Dean declared. "You just haven't had the right flavour yet."

"That's ridiculous."

"Oh, is it? Tell me this: how many ice cream flavours have you tried?"

"Two," Castiel admitted. "Vanilla and chocolate."

Accusingly, Dean looked at Castiel. "The two most boring flavours? Of course you didn't like them." He hummed, scanning the menu, then turned to Carl. "He'll have a scoop of strawberry cheesecake, please. And, uh, put some vanilla syrup across the top."

"You got it," Carl said, looking vaguely amused, and Dean was placing a few bills into Carl's hand before Castiel could even reach for his wallet.

When their orders came out, Dean grabbed them both. "Wouldn't want you to trip and fall," he explained. "Would be a waste of perfectly good ice cream. It’s easier to walk on grass—just be careful, okay?"

After sitting down on a picnic bench, Dean handed Castiel his cone, a mound of pink ice cream drizzled with a white syrup. "Try," he said simply.

Castiel gave Dean an exasperated look, but obediently brought it to his lips and gave it a tentative lick.

He blinked.

Dean had a stupid-looking grin on his face, eyes expectant and sparkling in the sun.

"It's not bad," Castiel said.

"You love it," Dean dismissed, seemingly pleased with his reaction enough to turn to his own cone and attacking it with relish.

"Oh, man," he mumbled through a mouthful, "Definitely sold his soul."

Not bad turned into surprisingly good, which subsequently turned into delicious when Castiel got a taste of the creamy chunks of cheesecake and crunchy graham crackers mixed into the ice cream. The weather was lukewarm and the sun was shining in a deep blue sky, wet dirt turning the air humid and damp as it evaporated in the heat. The taste of fresh, tangy strawberries was refreshing, and Castiel found himself enjoying the rest of his cone.

Nonetheless, Dean finished his two scoops faster than Castiel could finish even half of his, but he seemed perfectly content to sit and swing his feet on the bench, at one point hoisting himself up onto the surface of the table and watching his surroundings idly, making occasional chatter.

Castiel laughed as Dean recalled a story about how he had gone to Vancouver for a film and tried maple syrup taffy on a stick. Dean had on a soft, surprisingly-small smile, that turned askew when he looked towards Castiel.

"You've got some..." Dean gestured towards his mouth, and Castiel licked at the corner of his lips. "Nope. Nuh-uh. Ah..."

Dean leaned down and reached over to swipe his thumb across Castiel's chin.

"There we go," he murmured.

"Thank you," Castiel said.

"No problem," Dean said, but his hand didn't move.

Slowly, his thumb, resting on Castiel’s skin, dragged across and up to nudge at his lips, in a touch that was deceivingly gentle for the jolt that it shot through Castiel.

"Dean?"

Dean was watching him with a jam-packed expression, so many emotions swirling in grass-green eyes that Castiel couldn't decipher them all. His thumb parted Castiel's lips with just the slightest ounce of pressure, and a soft sound escaped him.

Eyes unwavering, Dean leaned in closer.

Castiel was still for a furious, frantic beat of his heart, then he was yanked back to reality and jerked away so quickly he nearly fell right off the bench.

"Not again," Castiel said, the tremor in his voice betraying his sudden panic.

Dean seemed frozen in place.

Suddenly, an anger rose in Castiel, bubbling up his chest, something he’d repressed for years and years and for the past two days was steadily choking down like bile, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Not like this. “Not again.”

“Cas—”

“What are you trying to do here?” Castiel asked, eyes burning, heart kicking up a nasty ricochet in his ribcage. All of a sudden, he was a teenager again, seventeen and clumsy and shy and devastated in the face of Dean Winchester. “What did you think was going to happen? An encore of the past?”

“No!” Dean’s face was shocked. “I swear, Cas, it’s not like that.”

Castiel pressed his lips together, tight and harsh. “Because it went so well  _ last time,  _ didn’t it?”

Dean flinched like he’d been shot. “I’m not like that anymore,” he said, his voice quavering like a broken violin string. “I swear to you, I’ve changed.”

It was all out, now. The weight on Castiel’s shoulders dropped into the open like an anvil, but instead of feeling lighter, it was crushing his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

An ice-cold slither down his wrist made him look down at the ice cream cone, dripping all over his hands. 

“What are you doing, Dean?” Castiel fought to keep his voice steady.

“Nothing.” Dean sounded close to begging. “Nothing. I’m just here to film a TV show. That’s all.”

Castiel was reminded of that first day after discovering Dean would be here, the phone call he received that night. Everything from the past few days came rushing back to him in bits and pieces, slotting in to form the big picture. “You wanted me to come onto the show. You  _ made  _ me do it for the money. What do you want from me? Is it a publicity thing?”

“No.” Dean was whispering, now. “Never.”  
“Was it _all_ a publicity thing? Even back then? Make friends with the loner, and then break his heart?”

There was a trash can next to the bench, and Castiel only had to reach in order to drop the melted cone and its remnants into it. Then, he stood up, and began to storm away.

“Cas, wait!”

He had enough time to think,  _ Oh, _ before both his feet shot out from the ground and the world tilted on its axis. He heard a shout, then a sickening crack, as an explosion of pain ratcheted its way across his skull and turned everything into black.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean would never understand why Sam got so excited over school.

Himself, he couldn't muster even a smile, but Sam was practically skipping as they walked together to school on the first day. At least, in this town, the elementary school was right next to the high school. It would make it easier to pick him up, unlike their last home, where Dean needed to wake up at 6:30 each morning to ensure everything was ready, make breakfast, and usher Sam to school before making the twenty-minute drive to his own school all the way over on the other side of town.

His first period was English. He had a love-hate relationship with English—all he ever did was make up some bullshit connections, and as long as he worded them well enough, he'd get a passing grade. Not like he particularly cared enough to do even that, though—not after that night he had woken up to find his father screaming at him (take his brother outside as fast as he could, and not look back).

They'd rented a run-down apartment for a while after that while they flailed and struggled to come to reality with what had happened, but it was obvious that it wasn't working, and Dean wasn't surprised when, a few weeks later, his father told them both to pack their bags, they were leaving. They never did get their deposit back, but Dean didn't think that was viable, considering the empty bottles cluttering the floors of the living room and the scent of stale beer reeking in the air. And the holes in the wall with the exact shape and size of a fist. One of them was Dean's and none of them were Sam's.

This high school had a strange scent to it: something like rusty water and musty pencils.

By the time he reached his classroom all the way on the third floor, Dean's legs were burning. He quickly walked in, eager to drop his bags and sit and hear without listening to the teacher drone on about Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe for an hour before moving away for his next class; rinse and repeat.

A quick scan revealed the desks set up in pairs, and a lack of empty pairs at that. Sighing, Dean made his way towards the back corner of the classroom.

"Just a second there, young man," the teacher suddenly called out. Dean turned, and gave her a tired look. It evidently wasn't the right choice, because the next thing she was saying was, "You're coming up to the front and sitting right here next to Castiel."

Dean fought a scowl. What kind of name was that?

He followed the teacher's gaze, his eyes landing on his soon-to-be desk buddy.

The boy—Castiel Novak, he introduced himself in a soft voice—had the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen, hidden behind a pair of frankly-adorable wire frames. When Dean mumbled a quiet quip under his breath when the teacher spoke about rules and regulations in the classroom, Castiel put a hand up to his mouth to hide his smile, his eyes darting over to land on Dean's.

Castiel wanted to be a teacher when he grew up. An English teacher, to be exact. He got a sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about the future, an excited little shine. He asked Dean what he wanted to be.

Truth was, he didn't know. He wasn't sure he'd ever know: nothing really called out to him like it seemed to do with Castiel. It never did bother him before, but something about the way those eyes peered at him, like they were seeing straight into his soul, made Dean feel inexplicably naked.

The first time they hung out outside of school was just over a week later. They drew increasingly closer to each other, unbidden, like two magnets with opposing poles.

One weekend after a grueling in-class essay, Castiel suggested a diner that was near the school, a five minute's drive away. Dean had to say something good about small towns; they were much more lenient on the speed limits. And they couldn't tell a fake license from a real one with a magnifying glass in one hand.

When Castiel laughed, he laughed like he was trying not to—he'd bite his lip and cover his mouth, shake his head with his face ducked to hide the flush on his cheeks. Dean made it his goal to get him to break.

He finally did when they were walking out of the diner that night. Castiel's defences were already lowered, his face relaxed and content.

Dean told Castiel about the time he tried to prank Sam by putting clingwrap over the toilet, but had forgotten about it in the middle of the night and pissed all over the floor and himself, and watched as Castiel bent over double and laughed so loudly you could hear it from all the way on the other side of the street.

Still giggling, Castiel had taken a step forward, and nearly tripped over the curb. Instinctively, Dean reached for him, grabbing his hand.

Castiel looked at him, his laugh dying in his throat.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Dean should’ve let go of Castiel's hand. He didn't. He didn't want to.

Castiel said something about how sweaty his hands were, but trailed off as Dean, barely hearing it, lifted their hands and gently pressed his lips against Castiel's thumb, then index, all the way around, ending with a kiss to the tip of his pinky.

"Dean?" Castiel said, and Dean dropped their hands, cupped the back of Castiel's neck, and kissed him on the mouth.

Castiel kissed him back.

By the time Dean was walking home, the heady haze was fading away. By the time he reached his house and was greeted by his father passed out on the couch, it was all but gone, replaced with a hard, hot panic.

He remembered all the remarks he'd heard through his teenage years, his father’s offhand comments and sneers directed towards people who were doing exactly what Dean had just done less than an hour ago. He envisioned being shouted at, jibed and scolded; could almost feel the harsh sting of a slap across his face.

It couldn’t happen. Not to him. There was something—wrong, something knocked horribly askew in the inner mechanisms of his heart, and he needed to make amends immediately before it could get any worse.

The next morning, Dean ignored the smile Castiel sent his way, and the subsequent, confused look, the ones following that slowly grew more absent as the days went on. When Castiel cornered him, eyes blazing, Dean felt his lips tingle and he curled his hand into a fist instead.

“I can’t do this,” Dean had told Castiel. “It’s wrong.”

The more Castiel pushed, the closer Dean pulled himself in, the higher he built his walls. And they tried—they really did—to move on. Pretend it never happened.

But there was still something wrong with Dean, and he couldn't make it go away. It was dark and poisonous and flared like flint rubbed against steel whenever he saw Castiel's neatly ruffled hair, whenever Castiel curled his fingers along a pencil or pushed his glasses higher up his nose or raised his hand in class, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin that Dean, inexplicably and all-consumingly, wanted to know the taste of.

But he couldn’t. And soon after Castiel turned away at Dean’s attempt at a smile, his pathetic hopes at rekindling a friendship and nothing more (as if the crippling elephant in the room was that easy to ignore), everything came to a head and burst out in a string of accusations, pointed fingers growing hostile until Castiel finally shook his head and announced in a thick voice that he was done.

It was a long time coming, anyway.

Dean started hanging out with Alistair and Crowley and jeering at the nerdy kids and fucking his way through every girl in the school, and by the end of senior year whatever was going on between the two of them was completely painted over with the black ink of animosity.

Castiel stopped trying to talk to him. Dean tied whatever was burning inside of him into a neat little bodybag and slapped a padlock on it the size of Texas, and he refused to touch it ever since.

By the time he moved away, it was already starting to rust, and then Benny came along and coaxed it into chipping away, bit by bit, until it finally snapped open, and it all came pouring back, and Dean realized that it wasn't poisonous at all, it was him, and it was okay, and it was wonderful—

Except that it wasn't, because Castiel would never get to see Dean like this, healed and whole and finally together; because Dean was a coward, and the halcyon weeks before the kiss that ruined it all were golden memories that he didn’t want to ruin with the harsh bitter reality of the present. How would he even approach someone he hurt so badly, was his fragile excuse. There was no opportunity. No time at all.

Dean had done everything he could to make up for who he had been, speaking out and fighting for and standing by all he could, but every night he cradled his memories close to his heart and accepted the fact that he would never fix the singular biggest mistake.

Until he received the email from Charlie Bradbury, congratulating him on his newest success in the latest film and asking him about his interest in taking on a new project, had he ever heard of  _ Bring It On Home, _ how would he like to take a trip back to memory lane and revisit his childhood hometown?

* * *

> _ Call it quits _
> 
> _ Call it destiny _
> 
> _ Just because it won't come easily _
> 
> _ Doesn't mean we shouldn't try _
> 
> —Bruno Major, Easily

There was a pounding in his temple that felt like a tiny hoard of angry construction workers had decided to take all their fury out on his skull.

Castiel groaned and, despite every cell in his body protesting the movement, forced his eyelids to open. He was assaulted with bright light and slammed them shut again, with another small noise of complaint.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice floated in from somewhere to his left. A rustle, movement; an arm at his side, a hand on his forehead. Castiel braced himself, then slowly opened his eyes again, this time only a slit, but keeping them open.

He met a pair of concerned green eyes, bloodshot with thin lines of red and leaning unerring close to him.

Dean's face crumpled when he saw Castiel looking back. "Oh, thank god, you’re awake," he said, voice loud with relief, and immediately lowered it back to a whisper when Castiel scrunched his forehead in complaint. "Sorry, sorry. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Castiel mumbled, and tried to sit up. Immediately, Dean had a hand between his shoulder blades, gentle pressure steadying him. "My head hurts," he added.

Dean winced. "Yeah," he said sympathetically. "You got hit pretty hard. Do you need water? I'll get you some water." He stood up abruptly from the chair he was sitting in, and dashed away, disappearing around the corner.

Sat up, Castiel took the time to look around. He seemed to be in a trailer, by the looks of it. A few stray posters hung on the wall. The bed he was in was big, and the mattress had a strange squishy feel to it—memory foam?

This was Dean's trailer, Castiel suddenly realized. And with that thought, the events of the day came flooding back.

By the time Dean returned, Castiel had gone from disorientated and lost to angry and overwhelmed.

"Water!" Dean called out, reentering the room. The smile on his face dropped when he saw Castiel's expression, and his steps slowed to a careful walk, all the way until he dropped himself back on the chair and silently handed him the glass.

Castiel took it and, after a moment of contemplation, gratefully sipped, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat as it slipped down. He didn't start talking until the entire glass was finished, taking his time savouring each mouthful, seconds of silence between his sips.

Throughout all this, Dean remained still, though Castiel could see his fingers drumming against his thigh in a nervous tic, back and forth and back again.

Finally, Castiel put the glass onto the nightstand next to the bed, next to a lamp and a picture—a family picture, he noticed. Old, crinkled at the edges, its colour seeped away by time. In it, there were a couple and two kids. That beautiful smiling woman was Dean's mother, Castiel realized.

Dean still wasn't talking—waiting for Castiel to initiate the conversation. No matter what had happened, Castiel was still grateful for that.

"Why did you do it?" Castiel asked.

Dean swallowed, hard, before speaking. "I wasn't trying anything, I swear," he said. "I just—Cas, I wasn't thinking right. It was all—I just—"

Castiel frowned, and then shook his head. "No, I didn't mean that." Although they certainly were going to speak about that later. "I meant before. In high school."

Why Dean, the spunky new kid, had befriended the quiet boy sitting next to him in English. Why they'd become so close in the span of a few days, quickly spinning into more, much more. Why he'd done a one-eighty immediately after, growing into something nasty and mean and poisoned. When just a few weeks, months, years, before, Dean had been the one to make the first move. _ He  _ was the one who pushed, who flirted with his eyes and grin and hands, touching, fleetingly, teasing in an instant before finally settling, only to snatch away as if burned.

"I don't know," Dean said.

Castiel let out a bitter noise. "That's the best explanation you have?"

"I'm sorry," Dean said immediately. He shoved a hand through his disarray of hair. Agitated, he stood up, and began to pace the length of the room. "I was young, and I was confused, and, believe me, I would do anything—anything—to take it all back.”

"Which part?" Castiel asked quietly. "The part where we were friends? The part where you kissed me first? Or after, when you ran away from it all?”

"The—the last part.” Dean stopped pacing to look at Castiel, eyes blazing. “I don’t regret kissing you. Not then and not—and not now.”

“Dean,” Castiel said. 

“I know,” Dean said, his voice shifting into something along the territories of pleading. “I know I messed up. I don’t know, Cas, I just don’t know. I was scared, and I didn’t know what I was doing—I went down the wrong path, and I’m so sorry, and I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I swear.”

“Anything?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded fervently. “Anything,” he swore.

Castiel pressed his lips together for a long time, watching Dean’s expressions shift from one to the other. “Don’t make me make the same mistake twice,” he said.

“I don’t…” And wasn’t it ironic, that this was the most like a little kid that Castiel had ever heard Dean? “What do you mean?”

“You say you’ve changed,” Castiel said. “I’m not blind, Dean, I can see that you have. I know you have.” He chewed on his bottom lip, and his mind flashed to the feeling of Dean’s thumb, stroking there—he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headboard. “And you keep telling me to trust you. But I did that before, and I got hurt. I can’t do that again.”

“What can I do?” Dean asked, desperately. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel replied.

Outside, birds were chirping. It was a beautiful day.

-+-+-+-

On Sunday evening, after Dean had dropped Castiel home with instructions on his head injury (muttered out in a stilted, awkward voice whilst not meeting each other’s eyes) Castiel had gone home and spent the rest of the night recovering, still reeling from everything that had happened. His chest was aching like an old wound torn open, and he found himself so caught up in his thoughts and memories that it wasn’t until eight when he realized he hadn’t even eaten dinner yet.

Gabriel called soon after dinner for his usual Sunday catch-up every couple of weeks. When Castiel picked up, Gabriel got two words in before Castiel blurted, “I need your advice,” and all of it came spilling out. It was a serious matter when Castiel asked  _ Gabriel. _

After he had gotten past the initial stage of disbelief, anger at not telling him about any of this, and absolute fury at Dean’s gall to appear and pretend nothing had gone wrong—Gabriel had been in university by the time it had all started, and it never came up in conversation since.

“I don’t care if he’s a goddamn saint nowadays,” were his words. “He was a dick to you, and he wants you to just let it go?”

It didn’t come as much of a surprise to Castiel. Gabe was always the vengeful one—his bullies in high school had walked away with their tails tucked between their legs, handfuls of dirt stuffed in their shoes, and probably with a bloody nose.

With a promise to update him if anything happened, Castiel hung up on Gabriel and dialed his mother next. By the time they’d finished talking, it was nearly midnight.

She gave Castiel the completely different side of the coin.

“People can change,” she said. “From what I can see, Dean is nothing like who he was as a child. If he’s gone this far, maybe he’s truly trying.”

“So you think I should forgive him?” Castiel asked.

His mother hummed. “I would be careful,” she finally said. “But, eventually, yes. Everybody makes mistakes, Castiel, but it’s whether or not they own up to it that really matters in the end.”

Those words had echoed in Castiel for a long time. “Thank you,” he finally told her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I trust you to make the right choice,” his mother said. “And, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“If you do take that boy home, Anna will be  _ so _ jealous.” Brevity was in her voice now, light and lilting. “That poor girl has been pining over him on the telly for years and years.”

Castiel smiled, a genuine one. His mother had that kind of magic on him. “I know,” he said. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I should sleep, now. I love you.”

“Love you too, dear. Sweetdreams.”

Even later that night, he received an email. It was from Charlie, and its contents contained secure instructions for how to deposit the money he got from being in the show. It was the amount that would’ve been given to him for the entire episode, all three parts, but Charlie had added as a footnote that he didn’t need to show up on Monday if he did not prefer to. Castiel wondered how Dean had broken the news to her, and how she took it, as an outsider unaware of their past. After all, Charlie still thought they were just very good childhood friends. If only that were the truth.

And it had been going so well, too. Castiel recounted the events of the past few days and, without the threat of the old wound now that it had already been reopened, he could admit it to himself: he had fun. It was fun. Dean was witty and kind, and utterly charming, and Castiel had found himself rapidly warming up to him and accepting him as a friend. It was only until Dean had pushed that line that Castiel had been reminded of his past mistakes, and that great big warning sign had flared up and made him shut down completely.

All night, Castiel tossed and turned, sleep a futile effort for all the racing thoughts in his head. He had seen too many of his own students break hearts over small scandals, and while those were high schoolers with the emotional patience of a teaspoon and a maturity to match, that night he wondered just how similar adults were. Maybe they never grew up, and life was always going to be like this: a hopeless, blind stumble, all grey and no finality.

Or maybe Dean Winchester just made him a little crazy.

By the time the sun broke from the horizon, Castiel could still feel the press of Dean’s thumb against the corner of his lips, so close to where, years before, Dean’s lips had rested.

_ Had  _ he been overreacting? Maybe Castiel was being overly cautious, trigger-happy with suspicion: a previously-broken heart made harsh barriers, all for the sake of extra security.

The next morning, Castiel could barely focus on his teaching all day. The most aware he had been was during lunch, when he finally placed an online order for the shipment for thirty copies of  _ East of Eden _ , paying with the money he now had enough of. And of course the reminder of that email only sent him spiralling further into conflict.

By the time the bell signifying the end of the school day rang shrill into the air, by the time Castiel drove all the way home, his thoughts were ramping up in his head, the pressure like a mental headache about to burst.

He gazed outside the window. The lake was right across the street, within a walk’s distance away. Charlie had told Castiel earlier that they were going to shoot in the late afternoon, to catch a shot of the sunset afterwards. It was nearly four PM, now.

Castiel stood up and walked to the door.

He reached for his coat. Hesitated.

Hanging next to it was Dean’s jacket. Castiel had been wearing it the entire day, and hadn’t realized until after Dean had dropped him off at his house.

He grabbed it instead of his own coat, slipping it on like armour.


	5. Chapter 5

> _ I will not ask you where you came from _
> 
> _ I will not ask you, neither should you _
> 
> _ Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips _
> 
> _ We should just kiss like real people do _
> 
> —Hozier, Like Real People Do

They were on the trail leading to the lake when Castiel saw them first.

Dean was standing in front of a tall, branchy oak tree with one hand gripping a low hanging branch. As Castiel approached, Dean hoisted himself up with a little hop and a shimmy, his other hand joining to clutch at the branch, and he began to pull himself up. Charlie was next to him, struggling to reach her own branch.

Dean grinned at Charlie, then at the camera—and then his eyes registered the extra movement from the path and flickered onto Castiel, and he immediately let go of the branch with both hands and hit the ground with a painful sounding thump of his locked-straight ankles.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said. "Hello, Charlie."

Charlie stopped her attempts at reaching the branch and her mouth grew agape with surprise. "Castiel!" she cried. "You came back!"

"I did," Castiel said.

"We were just about to head down to the lake," Charlie said hopefully.

Castiel smiled at her. "Sounds good," he said. "Lead the way."

"You should be the one saying that," Charlie joked, but she began to walk down the path.

Castiel followed, lingering behind, purposely slowing down for Dean, who was still standing under the tree and staring at Castiel like if he looked away for a second he would disappear.

"Cas," Dean started, uncertain and soft. "You came."

Castiel sighed. "I thought about a lot of things after you left, and I think—I owe you an apology, Dean."

Dean blinked, befuddled. "What for?"

"For jumping to conclusions. For making assumptions based on events that occurred years before, when you—when both of us—were young, and perhaps not as intelligent as we thought we were."

An unwitting sparkle in Dean's eye now. "Yeah?"

"I still stand by what I said about trust. I believe it's something precious, very difficult to mend once broken. But it can be done." Castiel looked at Dean, letting it all show in his eyes: the hope and the fear. "Come on, we don't want to keep Charlie waiting."

"Definitely not," Dean breathed, his smile spreading wide. "Thanks, Cas."

Together, side by side, so close their shoulders nearly brushed, they walked to the lake. And with the words finally out of the way, Castiel allowed himself to register the sparks between their fleeting touches as what they truly were—something potentially dangerous, but holding shreds of hope like fireflies.

When they reached the shore, Charlie had a surprise waiting for them.

"Well," she singsonged, an sly look on her face. "I might have come here earlier and rented canoes for all of us. Camera crew's gonna have to squeeze in and carry their waterproof cameras, but we've got enough for the whole gang."

"Damn," Dean breathed, impressed. "Charlie—you're awesome."

Charlie beamed. "I know." She pointed towards the shed a few paces away. "There are lifejackets over there."

Dean’s face made it clear what he thought of that. "Cas, were there lifejackets when you came here during high school?"

"No," Castiel said obediently.

Dean snapped his fingers. "Right answer." He started to walk towards the water, turning once to wave at the rest of them to follow.

There were three canoes on the boat, and six people in total. Castiel assumed three cameramen—one per canoe.

Castiel was to share a canoe with Ash, though Castiel did most of the heavy work, aware of the camera on the other’s shoulders. He pushed the canoe into the water before grabbing the bigger oar and rowing them out until the water lapped higher and higher, eventually cradling the three canoes into its grasp and coaxing them into the lake, fully floating, almost all three at the same time.

As he rowed out, Castiel felt a serenity take over him. The sun was lazy on the horizon like low-hanging fruit, making the waves glint like diamonds. He would often spend hours paddling out to the middle of the lake, where he'd sit for hours with his legs in the water, sometimes with a book, sometimes with nothing at all, cattails kissing his outstretched shins and seaweed trailing through his toes. He'd gotten many a sunburn from those memories, but the sting was a familiar and welcome one.

Castiel was jerked out of his nostalgia when he felt a flurry of water splash along his side, splattering his shirt and droplets landing on his thighs.

He looked to his left and saw Dean, again with that dangerously-edged grin on his face. Further to the left, Charlie's white blouse was also visibly darkened with tiny specks of water—but much less than Castiel. She seemed to have been replaced as the target for Dean's hijinks by Castiel, judging by the triumphant look in her eyes.

"Dean," Castiel said warningly. His only response was another slap of Dean's oar, this time closer, a bigger wave of lakewater soaking his side.

In retaliation, Castiel sank one side of his paddle deep into the water, braced himself, and levered it up with a push on the other side as hard as he could. An arc of water streaked into the sky before landing right on top of Dean, his face suddenly an image of shock, water dripping down his chin.

"Oh, that's it," Dean said, and Castiel realized Charlie had probably made the wise decision of ignoring Dean until he got bored, while Castiel evidently bit back—he had only a second to feel alarm prickling at his skin before he was being hit with another wave.

He couldn’t tell you how long this went on for. Frankly, Castiel was quite embarrassed at how long it went on for.

It all came to a head when Dean leaned across his canoe, reached out for Castiel's, and pulled until they were mere inches from each other. Dean bent over, scooped up a handful of water, and tossed it straight into Castiel's face. He did it again. And again.

Castiel sputtered and cried out in outrage, his hair sticking to his cheeks in a way that made him shudder. His eyes flew closed to cover from the onslaught.

“Take that!” Dean hollered, still throwing water at Castiel.

Blindly, Castiel reached out, flailing until he made contact with something warm and firm. Without a second thought, he yanked as hard as he could.

He heard a startled shout. His own canoe tilted to the side as a large, blunt force hit it, rocking precariously before settling down into a steady bobbing motion.

Castiel wiped his hand over his face and opened his eyes.

Dean was no longer on the canoe. His cameraman—Meg—was pointing her camera down into the water with a look of glee.

"You little shit," Castiel heard from below, and he looked down to see Dean grabbing on to the edge of Castiel's canoe and trying to climb right in.

Castiel hit Dean on the head with his oar. Dean yelped, and laughed, and hoisted his entire torso onto Castiel's canoe, tipping it to the side.

"You're in for it now," he muttered, and swung his legs up and in.

Behind him, Ash was laughing hysterically and being absolutely no help. Castiel could only struggle, resignation sinking into him and regret coming too late, as Dean grappled until he had a hold on Castiel's shoulders before shoving him backwards, out, and down.

Castiel's reflexes were only fast enough for him to close his eyes and mouth before he was submerged in a shock of cold water, immediately soaking through his clothes and snaking into his skin. He flailed, uncoordinated, for a moment, before breaking the surface with a gasp and a hysterical giggle.

A second later, there was a splash right next to him, and Dean's head popped out from the water. His hair appeared nearly brown, darkened and wet and plastered to his forehead. He was grinning with a wild slant of his mouth, and a laugh bubbled out when Castiel immediately greeted him with a wall of water.

"Watch it!" he shouted. "The cameras!"

"They're waterproof!"

Dean laughed again, open and carefree, and shook his head from side to side like a wet dog, droplets flying out in an arc all around him. The sunlight caught the remaining wetness on his face and refracted them into sparkling pinpoints.

Steadily, Castiel treaded water, watching him with a smile that was much wider than it had any right to be.

Dean sucked in a breath and dived down, his path visible through a ripple through the lake, until he popped up on the opposite side of Castiel.

"Come on," he said abruptly. "I wanna show you something."

"What?" Castiel asked.

"Follow me," Dean said, and turned around and began to swim, too fast for the canoes to follow.

Castiel looked back to Charlie and the three cameramen, question clear in his eyes.

Charlie sighed. "Go ahead," she said. "We've got enough footage, anyway. We'll give you two lovebirds your privacy."

At the stunned look on Castiel's face, she rolled her eyes. "It's really kinda obvious, dude. Besides, my gaydar? Going off like crazy." She twirled a finger around her head. "I'm glad your little domestic is all fixed, by the way. Now, go get him."

Castiel laughed breathlessly and gave Charlie a thumbs-up before diving headfirst into the water and starting to swim.

Five minutes later, Dean stopped. Castiel nearly bumped into his feet before he pulled himself back upright, treating water to stay stationary. Dean was doing the same.

They were in the middle of the lake. “This is what you wanted to show me?” Castiel said.

“Nope,” Dean said. “Far from it. Was checking to see you were still following.”

Castiel looked around them, and noticed for the first time just how far from land they were. A dabble of alarm shot through him at the prospect when he realized that he couldn’t see their canoes anymore—they must’ve taken a turn somewhere in the twisted, amorphous shape of the lake’s edges. It only worsened when he realized he couldn’t feel the ground under his feet when he straightened his legs—hadn’t been able to for a long time, now. How deep was the water?

“Come on,” Dean said. “Let’s keep moving. We’re halfway there.”

“Halfway?” Castiel gasped. “Dean, we’re too far away from shore. We should head back.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’ll be fine, Cas. Let’s go.”

“No—” Castiel reached out and grabbed hold of Dean’s arm. “It’s dangerous.”

Dean turned, glanced at Castiel’s hand resting on his arm, and flicked his eyes back up. “Dangerous how? Giant fish?”

“Riptides.”

“I’ve dealt with those. The trick is to swim diagonal to the current, not against.”

“You’ve  _ what—”  _ Castiel shook his head, storing that tidbit of information for later. “What if it rains?”

“Castiel. Look at the  _ sky,”  _ Dean intoned in a low, gravelly, ridiculous voice, making a big show of gazing at the sky, which was a clear, cerulean blue.

“I do not sound like that!”

Dean grinned. “I know. You sound better.” The grin sidled into something smaller, more sentimental, as Dean reached up to put his hand over Castiel’s. “Cas, you’re telling me you’ve lived here your entire life, but you’ve never swam this far into the lake?”

“Never,” Castiel said. In fact, this was the first time since high school he was even  _ in  _ the lake.

“Why on earth not?”

Suddenly feeling embarrassed, Castiel felt a flush crawling up his face. “I just… never thought about it, really,” he muttered.

“You gotta try new things sometimes, man,” Dean said softly. “It’s not as scary as it seems, I promise. I’ve been here a dozen times before—hell, more than that.”

“Okay,” Castiel said. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand once, tightly, before letting go, and onwards they swam.

Castiel’s eyes grew dry and irritated from the water, stinging and squinted in the sunlight. His shins were aching with every kick, and his arms protested every stroke. 

Right when he was about to tug at Dean’s ankle and call things off, Dean stopped swimming.

Castiel righted himself, and rubbed a hand over his face to clear the water from his eyes. He blinked rapidly and looked in front of him, and saw that they’d swam all the way across the lake and had hit the other end, where the land was elevated, thirty or so feet above their heads. Below that, all they could see was a wall of rocks, dented and creased with the constant waves.

“We’re here,” Dean said, sounding utterly content.

Castiel said, “You brought me here to see a bunch of rocks?”

“Just hold on,” Dean said. “You’ll see.” They swam to the side of the rock wall, where the rocks gave way to a dirt trail, roots protruding and forming almost a faux-staircase, winding all the way up the cliff.

“Alright,” Dean said, sounding satisfied, and pulled himself out of the water. His shirt clung to his back and hugged his muscles as he stretched his arms above his head.

Dean plucked at the hem of his collar, grimaced, then tugged off his shirt in one fell swoop. His jeans went next, and he walked over to a large rock and laid them out flat. Castiel stared, awed at the way Dean stood, unashamed and unabashed, bare feet curling into watery mud.

Dean turned around. “They’ll dry faster,” he said.

“We’re swimming back anyway; they’ll just get wet again,” Castiel pointed out.

“Still.” Dean raised his eyebrows, something mischievous in the quirk of his lips.

Castiel met it with something akin to challenge, flaring in his gut as he exited the lake. Without thinking too hard or too much, he unzipped and removed the jacket he was wearing, then reached for the hem of his shirt and took it off.

Both in just their boxers now and clothes laid out to sun, they made their way up the trail.

They reached the peak in a few minutes.

The view stretched out across the horizon, the sun to their back and the lake spread out below them. Castiel could make out the forest, the rows of houses—he followed the streets down to the block of tan bricks that was the school. He saw a bird flying across the sky, wings outstretched.

They were just a few paces away from the cliff’s edge, where a sheer drop hung over turquoise waters, dark and deep. Dean was a step in front of him, and he looked behind him to see Castiel’s reaction.

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel said. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, and then he grinned, and started running towards the edge.

Heart pounding, Castiel ran to follow, only to skid to a stop one step away from the overhang, watching as Dean jumped right off.

He made a strangled sound in his throat and stared as Dean plummeted into the water, disappearing in a huge splash. He was submerged for one, two, three seconds—then he surfaced with a whoop so loud Castiel heard it all the way from the top.

“Dean!” he yelled. Dean looked up and waved, and even from up here, Castiel could see the mile-wide grin on his face.

“Come on!” Dean called back.

Castiel’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, and then raised his voice.  _ “This _ is what you brought me up here for?!”

“What else?” Dean said back.

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can!” Dean waved his arms like a semaphore dancer. “Just close your eyes, then run and jump!”

“I’ll fall on you!” Castiel cried out.

“I’ll catch you!”

_ “Dean!” _

Dean’s laugh was as bright as bells.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Castiel whispered, and then he closed his eyes, and ran, and jumped.

For a moment, a long, sustained, forever moment, the wind screamed in his ears and his hair whipped his face and he was going to fall on Dean’s head and bash his skull in, and he was never going to be able to hear Dean’s voice or see Dean’s smile ever again, and he’d be globally hated by thousands of adoring fangirls and fanboys for killing the film industry’s most eligible bachelor, and then the water broke all around him and he was engulfed by the lake.

It felt like a slap to his face, and he scrambled to regain his senses, eyes flying open accidentally underwater and catching rows of bubbles all around.

Then a hand gripped his arm and yanking him back above the surface.

Castiel frantically sucked in air and coughed up a dribble of water, chest heaving.

Dean thumped Castiel on the back, pulling out another string of coughs. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“That was  _ insane,”  _ Castiel gasped.

“But wasn’t it fun?” Dean prodded, raising his eyebrows.

Castiel took another moment to catch his breath, his heart still pounding too hard to even hear Dean’s voice properly. He shook his head, water clogged ears coming clean in a pop.

“Wasn’t it?” Dean said, relentless. “Admit it! You had fun.”

Castiel sighed. “I did,” he murmured. “God help me, I did.”

Dean grinned, delighted. His hand slipped higher from where it was grabbing Castiel’s arm, sliding until it was cupping the junction of his shoulder and neck.

Dean’s face melted into something altogether different, his eyes turning a dark, intense forest green as he deliberately pulled Castiel closer.

Castiel was finding it difficult to breathe. He was frozen in place until the very last millimetre—and then he turned his face to the side so that Dean’s mouth brushed up against his cheek.

He felt Dean’s lips part, and let out a soft huff of air. A second later, he retreated.

“Dean,” Castiel said, softly.

“I know,” Dean muttered. “I just—you don’t know what you do to me, Cas.”

“I want to,” Castiel said. “I want to believe you—to trust that you’ve changed. And I can see it, I really can. In everything you do. But there’s always a risk.”

“You said you were scared,” Dean murmured. “You were scared of swimming out so far into the lake. Of jumping off the cliff, into the water.” He met Castiel’s eyes, his thumb stroking a path across Castiel’s collarbone. “You're so scared of something going wrong that you look for it in every opportunity. But look at how things turned out. And, yes, maybe things do go wrong. Sometimes we’re going to fuck up—because that’s what people do. I fucked up. But whatever happens, we can deal with it. That’s what people do, Cas. So please, don’t be scared of this—of  _ us.  _ I can’t guarantee things won’t go wrong, but isn’t it worth it to try?”

Castiel didn’t know how to respond.

After waiting to no avail, Dean gave him a small smile and let his hand fall from Castiel’s shoulder.

“Let’s go get our clothes,” he said. “We can walk. I know a way back.”

-+-+-+-

They found Charlie and the rest of the crew chilling out by the side of the lake, just in time to catch the sunset. After a long, tranquil silence, Charlie revealed to them that they were to have a campfire, set up in the campgrounds next to the lake.

Castiel knew this last portion of the show would target romance. It wasn't a far leap, and considering Dean being one of the biggest names out there who was openly bisexual, there was no doubt the producers would use this portion of the shooting in order to highlight the love life of Dean Winchester.

Thus, it didn’t come as much of a surprise that, after they enjoyed a ragtag meal of s’mores, Charlie turned to Dean with curiosity clear in her eyes.

“But anyway, Dean,” Charlie said. “My sexual awakening was the Galadriel from Lord of the Rings. Saw her when I was fourteen, and never looked back. What about you?”

“Well, Charlie, it was a classmate of mine,” Dean said. “I moved here just in time for Junior year. He sat next to me in English on the first day of school.”

Castiel stopped breathing.

“Oh, really?” Charlie sounded piqued. “So, did you ask him out?”

“I did, actually. As soon as I dug up enough courage to. We went to the Roadhouse during lunch as our first date, and I kissed him right there in the parking lot.”

“Aww!” Charlie said. “That’s so cute. You two must’ve been happy together.”

Dean smiled, then, without humour. “Not really. I didn’t even know what gay was, much less bisexual. I sort of… reacted badly.” He huffed. “Understatement. I panicked. I thought there was something wrong with me.”

From Charlie’s expression, it was clear this wasn’t what she expected. “Oh,” she stammered. “What happened, then?”

“I took it back. I told him it was wrong. That I had made a mistake. He was hurt, obviously, but I stood by my choice. And then other things happened, things that made me feel worse and worse, and I was so angry back then—at my father, myself, and everyone else around me.”

“Dean—” Charlie was murmuring. “Dean, if you want to stop—”

Dean shook his head. “No, let me finish.”

“We don’t need to use this footage,” Charlie said.

Dean raised his gaze and pointed it straight into the camera. “They should hear it,” he said. “I’ve been running away from it long enough. It’s about time I faced it.”

He kept talking. “I pushed my feelings down until they turned into something poisonous. I thought that, maybe, I could just  _ fix  _ myself if I balanced things out. I started ignoring him. I started being cruel, and while I hated it every second of every day, it was the only path I could see, and I didn’t know how to pull myself out.”

“And when you moved away?” Castiel couldn’t keep quiet for any longer.

Dean looked shocked that Castiel had spoken, his eyes widening for a split second before dropping again. “When I moved away, I met someone. My roommate, Benny, he—he helped me. I realized just how wrong—how broken I was. I’ve been trying to fix myself ever since.”

Silence. The crackling of the fire, and the chirping of faraway crickets. A camera shutter going off.

“Dean,” Charlie said. She was whispering. “I had no idea.”

“Good,” Dean said, his voice gruff. “I didn’t want anyone to know. But they deserve this much.” He stared deep into the camera, addressing the crowd this time. “If anyone out there is struggling with this, anyone at all—you’re not alone. Please don’t hurt yourself for no good reason. It’s never too late to change. Sometimes you just need to take the first step.”

“I want to say something, too,” Castiel said, speaking up. “If you know someone is struggling, step forward and help them—acknowledge them—before it’s too late. But it’s never too late to change, nor is it ever too late to forgive. Broken bridges can be mended. Broken hearts can heal.” He met eyes with Dean, who was looking right at him with a half-open mouth. “Sometimes, it’s worth it to try.”

The rest of the evening was tranquil, after that. They talked quietly over the fire, exchanging knick-knacks of stories. Dean grabbed a guitar that Kevin carried over from the trailer, and plucked it gently with his fingers, his voice soft and rough as the night grew darker, pinpricks of stars coming out of hiding all through the sky.

Castiel dedicated five minutes of intense concentration on roasting the perfect marshmallow, only for it to fall into the fire as he tried to pull it back. He heard a quiet chuckle from Dean, and smiled.

Finally, Charlie yawned, standing up from the logs they were using as chairs. “We should get going,” she said. “Dean, you’re scheduled to return to LA tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

“Actually,” Dean said, “I’m staying. I called my agent yesterday night—told her I’d be staying here for an undetermined amount of time. It’s not like I had anything urgent coming up, anyway.”

Charlie’s eyes darted across Dean’s face, and then she let out a disbelieving little huff. “Figures,” she said. “Well, alright, then. We’ll pack up, leave you two to it. Dean, just meet me in my trailer tomorrow morning to wrap things up.”

“Gotcha,” Dean said, and a few minutes later, the two of them were the only ones left.

Castiel was sitting on the same log as Dean, a few feet away. He turned towards him. “Yesterday night?” he asked. “Isn’t that a little presumptuous of you?”

Dean pursed his lips. “No matter what happened, I wasn’t going to leave with you still angry at me.”

“What was your plan? Stalk me around town, begging for forgiveness, until I gave in?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno. I’d’ve come up with something.”

“You would have,” Castiel said. “You always played your cards as you went.”

Dean mumbled something.

“What did you say?” Castiel asked.

“I said, I would’ve played every card I’ve got.” 

Before Castiel could figure out what to say to something like that, Dean stood up. “The fire’s dying,” he said abruptly. “I’ll… go poke at it.”

He walked over and grabbed a forgotten marshmallow spear from the ground, beginning to lift the burning logs and gently blowing at the flames.

For a moment, Castiel watched Dean’s shoulders moving under his shirt. Then, he stood up and walked towards Dean until he was right behind him.

Dean straightened, and jolted when he saw Castiel standing so close.

“Hey—” he said, and before he could say anything else, Castiel went on his tiptoes, put a hand on Dean’s face to nudge his head to the side, and kissed him.

For a split second, Dean was utterly frozen. Then he melted, one hand flying up to bury itself in Castiel’s hair.

Dean had been Castiel’s first kiss. Castiel had never told Dean this—it wasn’t as if he had the chance to—but Dean had been Castiel’s first kiss, and now, it transported him back to that moment on the curb of the diner, his hand in Dean’s and his palms sweating like crazy, so much it must’ve been completely disgusting—but all Dean did was smile and kiss Castiel’s fingers, one by one, before dropping their hands to the side and letting their lips meet.

He still kissed in the same way—taking his time with it, savouring every second with a solid, single-minded devotion. Slipping in just the hint of a tease, tongue flicking against Castiel’s lips before retreating, over and over, before finally giving in. He ran his free hand down Castiel’s back in a long, heated line, a caress, like what was beneath his hands was utterly precious.

Ridiculously, Castiel felt a salty burn in his sinuses, a pressure under his eyelids that hinted at moisture. When Dean parted his lips and breathed out  _ Cas  _ like a prayer, the pressure flowed over, and he felt a droplet roll down his cheek. 

He realized just then what exactly he had been repressing, what he had been so afraid of. He thought he had been boarding up the hurt, the hate, towards Dean. But he had been hiding the love.

He  _ had  _ missed this. So much.

Castiel opened his eyes at the same time as Dean. Dean tilted his head up and kissed the tear away.

“Cas,” Dean said. “Thank you.  _ Thank you.” _

“It’s worth it,” Castiel said.

Dean’s smile was heartbreaking, and Castiel kissed him again to take it off his face.

When they parted for the last time, the fire had shrunk to glowing orange embers, pulsing like something alive and breathing.

“Are you going to regret this tomorrow?” Castiel murmured. “Tell me it was a mistake, and that it’s wrong?”

“Never,” Dean said.

“Good,” Castiel said, and Dean pulled him in against his chest, arms coming around him completely in a full-bodied embrace. Castiel closed his eyes, and was lulled into a heady half-sleep by the rhythm of Dean’s heart in his ear.


	6. Chapter 6

> _ And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good. _
> 
> —John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Cas must have just finished baking when the doorbell rang. When he opened the door to greet Dean, there were still traces of flour on his shirt, and a dash of it on his nose. It was adorable, and Dean wanted to kiss it off him the instant he saw him. So he did.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, grinning at the other, who had gone cross-eyed when Dean leaned in to peck him on the tip of his nose. “Merry Christmas,” he added.

“You too,” Cas said, smiling warmly. “Come on in.”

Stepping into the house, Dean closed his eyes and breathed in. Yup, definitely baking—there was a spicy, buttery scent hanging in every crevice of the home. “Damn, what are you making? That smells amazing.”

“Ginger and molasses cookies,” Cas said. “They’re my father’s favourite. Gabriel hates them.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, and mentally added the tidbit of information down into his head: Cas’s father prefers spices over sweets (as well as hot coffee over hot cocoa, and rainy days over snow); Gabriel likes anything drenched in enough sugar. Maybe he could pick up a batch of fudge for Gabriel on their way to the airport.

“Relax,” Cas said, somehow reading Dean’s mind. It was amazing how he seemed to do that so often. “They’ll love you.”

“I dunno, man,” Dean muttered. “I’m not the same person off-camera.”

“You’re better,” Cas reassured. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’ll save me if I start saying anything wrong?” When Cas pulled a skeptical face, Dean laughed. “Who am I kidding, you’d be the first one to dig me a deeper hole.”

“You don’t need my help to do that,” Cas said lightly. It was true, too: the first time Dean talked to Cas’s parents was during Thanksgiving weekend, over the phone. Dean had been swamped in work, and what little free time he had left was dedicated towards spending time with Sam and their father—whom Dean had called for the first time in a long time right after they wrapped up the production of  _ Bring it on Home,  _ after a long night of introspective thinking over a bottle of beer.

John Winchester had spent Dean’s high school years utterly overtaken with grief, but Dean decided it was finally time to let go of his anger and make the first step towards reconciliation. It had been a long time coming, and there were pitfalls along the way—John had gone in and out of rehab too many times to count, and he couldn’t change in a day, or even years—but Thanksgiving had been a good day. They even had a homemade turkey, courtesy of Jess.

Point was, by the time things were all wrapped up, Dean could only spare enough time for a video call, set up in a trailer, with Cas and his family all the way across the country. He was so utterly certain he had bombed his first impression, what with Gabriel making not-so-subtle references towards Dean’s high school years, Cas’s wincing at Dean’s horrible jokes, Cas’s father’s confused frowns when he didn’t understand a pop culture reference; the way Anna had mock-flirted with him and the way Dean immediately began to stammer, and a dozen other blunders that fueled Dean’s despair like gasoline. He was  _ this _ close to faking a poor internet connection and ending it all.

In his panicked phone call after, though, Cas had reassured Dean that he had been great, and that his family had loved him. Which was absolutely ridiculous and Dean knew it, because Cas was just way too nice like that.

And maybe the way-too-niceness ran in the family, because the month flew by and the next thing he knew, he was invited over to Cas’s parents’ home over the holidays for a Christmas dinner.

Needless to say, Dean was terrified. He had spent an entire hour picking out an outfit that said,  _ I make an effort to dress nice but I don’t spend too long focused on how I look, because true beauty comes from within and I’m an awesome boyfriend like that, please like me. _

Were the dress shoes too much? Fuck it, it was too late now anyway.

Cas led him deeper into the house, where Dean took a seat on the couch after Cas shooed him out of the kitchen to finish packaging the cookies.

“Do you have everything ready?” Cas asked him from the kitchen.

“‘Course I do,” Dean replied. “Passport, ID, luggage, and gifts.”

“Gifts?” Coming into the living room, Cas sat down next to Dean with a sigh. “I told you, Dean, you didn’t need to buy gifts.”

“That’s bullshit, Cas,” Dean replied pleasantly. “No arguments on this, okay? Let me do this for you.” He slung an arm around Cas and pulled him in closer, until they were touching all along their sides, sending warm sparks askitter in Dean’s chest.

“Fine,” Cas said. “As long as you didn’t spend too much on them.”

“Deal,” Dean said lightly.

(The plane tickets for a two-day trip to Paris sitting in his pockets probably cost more than they normally would, what with it being the holiday season and all, but it definitely didn’t cost  _ too _ much. Nothing was too much when it came to Cas. And his larger-than-usual monthly donation to his hometown’s highschool was just a little blip, that’s all.)

“What about you?” Dean said, squeezing Cas’s shoulder before running his hand up and down his arm. “You get me anything special?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Castiel said.

“Mmm,” Dean said, pitching his voice lower, more suggestive. He waggled his eyebrows, making it over-the-top to make Cas laugh, and grinned when it was successful.

He had always loved making Cas laugh, from the very get-go. When Cas smiled, it was with a glimmer in his eyes; when he laughed, it turned into a full-on sparkle. Like the surface of a beautiful blue lake, he had made the mistake of spilling to Sam once, drunkenly, over the phone. He would never let it go, but despite the chick-flicky-ness, all of it was true.

“What?” Cas said, and Dean blinked himself back to the present.

“What?” he said back.

“You’re staring,” Cas stated.

“Was I? I hadn’t realized,” Dean lied.

Cas crinkled his nose in that adorable way he did whenever he was confused, or thinking really hard about something. “Is there cookie dough on my face?”

Dean tilted his head to the side, pretending to think. “Yeah, a little,” he said. “Right… there. No, higher. To the left. Actually, you know what—” He leaned over and kissed Cas on his cheek. “There you go.”

“Dean,” Cas said, in that disapproving voice he did whenever he thought Dean was lying.

“Oh, wait, there’s some more,” Dean said, and swooped in to kiss Cas on the other cheek, too.

_ “Dean.” _

“Well, shit, it’s everywhere,” Dean said, and caught that sparkle in Cas’s eyes beginning to form once again, before he closed his own eyes and finally dipped lower to meet Cas’s lips.

He would never forgive himself for what he did in the past, but he would do all he could and more to make it up to Cas now. Throughout all of it, one thing remained sure as the sea: Dean loved Cas, more than anything.

He had been so scared of it when he was younger, disillusioned and terrified of what was happening to him. He embraced it, now, all of it: from the insecurities and the fear to the joy and the hope.

When he had pulled up to Cas’s driveway, it had just been starting to snow. A clean slate and new beginnings.

God, Cas’s inner English teacher was rubbing off on him.

Cas began to push on Dean’s shoulders, and Dean disengaged with a huff of disappointment. Cas’s face was flushed beautifully pink, and he was blinking like a sleep-deprived owl.

“We’re going to miss the flight,” Cas said, when Dean tried to lean in again.

“I’ll book us another one,” Dean murmured. “First-class, just for you.”

“Or,” Cas said, “you could teach me a new slang I’ve heard from my students recently. It’s called the  _ mile-high club.” _

Dean nearly bit his own tongue. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yeah. Okay. Yes.” He sprung up from the couch. “Let’s go.”

Cas’s laughter followed him all the way out of the room.


End file.
